


The Kingdom of Rust

by Swordy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Community: spn_reversebang, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Mute Dean Winchester, Muteness, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:39:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Twenty-two years ago, the Croatoan virus decimated the population. John Winchester lost his wife, but was spared along with his two boys. He packed them into his car with whatever belongings they could quickly grab and they ran. There was nowhere to go to, of course, so they never stopped running.</i>
</p><p>When their father goes missing, Sam and Dean Winchester set off across post-apocalyptic America to find him. Sam wants to connect with other survivors, but Dean - mute since the virus destroyed his family as a child - finds it difficult to be around others and wants them to work alone. Some situations, however, can't be dealt with alone...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful thruterryseyes for acting as the fastest beta in the west. After some last-minute alterations, any remaining errors are mine. Art is by the awesomely talented becc_j. Check out her masterpost [here](http://becc-j.livejournal.com/24350.html) and show her some love! Fic title taken from the most excellent song by Doves. Written for the 2014 spn_reversebang.

  


The Croatoan virus hit on a Wednesday.

Within twenty-four hours, the shit was already drying on the fan. Within forty-eight, the world had changed forever. 

The infected roamed, viciously infecting others with blood-to-blood contact. Those that miraculously avoided contracting the virus found themselves under siege, from friends, family and strangers alike. ‘Kill or be killed’ became a way of life thrust upon those left behind.

John Winchester lost his wife, but was spared along with his two boys. He packed them into his car with whatever belongings they could quickly grab and they ran.

There was nowhere to go to, of course, so they never stopped running. 

When the outbreak started, Dean was four and Sam was six months old. The chaos of those early days had a profound impact on his eldest son and almost overnight, Dean went from being a regular little boy to one who had seen far too much, far too young. On that terrible night, John had pushed Sam into Dean’s arms and implored him to run while he dealt with his inexplicably homicidal wife. He was never certain how much Dean had witnessed of what he’d done to keep them safe before the little boy had followed his father’s instruction and run.

When Dean stopped speaking, John assumed it was a temporary reaction to everything that had happened. When weeks turned into months, then into years, it became the norm. While on a supply run, John broke into a library and stole books on American Sign Language and Dean was given his voice back.

Sam never knew any different: not that his brother had once talked like regular people or that life was completely different before the Croatoan virus decimated the population. Mary’s death made John determined to survive. He trained his boys to fight, imparting everything the Marines had taught him, and then some. Undoubtedly, it was every man for himself out there, but his boys were the exception – they looked out for each other. End of story.

John disappeared when Dean was twenty-six and Sam was twenty-two. Although no one could change the fact that the virus had happened, John always wanted answers or revenge, because of the personal cost to their family. Once he was certain that Sam and Dean could manage without him, he started to disappear for increasing amounts of time, hooking up with like-minded people. They called themselves ‘hunters’- always tracking information, all searching for a cure, or answers or both. There were stories that had gained momentum with time – that the virus was manmade or, more outlandishly, the work of demons. 

It wasn’t unusual for John to be gone for several weeks, but when the weeks became a month, and then two, they started to think that something might have happened to him. Sam had clashed regularly with their dad over his obsession, with Dean forced to act as peacemaker. Personally, Sam felt that they should just be grateful that they survived and try to make the best of it, but John was bull-headed – had been long before the virus came along – and kept on with his quest, his son’s wishes be damned.

They’d moved on several times since John had gone on his last hunt, but, as per his instruction, they’d diligently left a trail so he would know where to find them. Even with the passing of time, they both still expected him to burst in at some point, wild-eyed and raving about his latest theory of what had brought the human race to its knees.

Every day that didn’t happen, the likelihood increased that John was dead. Sam oscillated between fear and acceptance – Dean, on the other hand, seemed firmly rooted in denial; their father would return, like he always did. 

Regardless of what _had_ happened to him, life went on.

OoOoO

Sam hated Wednesdays. Wednesdays meant the supply run, a routine their dad had started and Dean insisted they keep to, even when the man himself wasn’t present. They always kept a stockpile of essentials, but John took obsessive to pains to remind them there was no such thing as being ‘too prepared’.

_You ready to go?_ Dean asked, his hands forming the signs rapidly when Sam emerged from the bathroom and looked his way. Dean had been itching to go ever since they’d first awoken. 

“Yeah.”

Dean’s impatience was down to one thing and one thing alone: they needed to find more fuel for the car. When their father had scooped them up and driven them away from the wreckage that was their family life, he’d done so in a sleek, black 1967 Chevolet Impala. The car had essentially become their home, so keeping it running was a given. 

With refineries unmanned and the shelf life of gasoline pitifully short, the amount of available fuel dwindled rapidly. Determine to keep _their_ car running, John had converted it to run on alcohol with the help of a fellow survivor. It had remained functional ever since. Others had done the same, but the constant need to keep searching for fuel meant few survivors ran cars anymore.

Eventually John had bequeathed the car to Dean, who treated it with such reverence it was essentially the fourth member of the Winchester family. To Dean, keeping the car in ethanol was as important as keeping _them_ fed and safe.

_Come on then,_ Dean signed impatiently, his shotgun slung over his shoulder.

Sam rolled his eyes once Dean had turned his back, but he went to retrieve his own weapons. They’d been at this abandoned motel for five days. There had been a few Croats roaming, which they’d quickly taken care of, and they hadn’t seen a soul, infected or otherwise, since then. The Impala was garaged, hidden safely away until they were ready to move on.

_You wanna go this way?_ Dean asked as they headed out of the motel parking lot. Sam glanced around, shielding his eyes against the early morning sun. When they’d first arrived, they’d passed a row of boarded up stores so it seemed the obvious place to head for, when they had no idea what lay in the other direction.

“Sure.”

His eyes were on the road ahead when he saw Dean starting to sign out of his peripheral vision.

_What’s up with you?_

“Nothing.”

His answer didn’t seem to satisfy his brother, who was still watching him closely, his expression calling bullshit. Sam sighed, momentarily transfixed by the amulet his brother wore bouncing against his chest as he walked.

“I just think we should think about what we’re doing. It’s been two months, Dean.”

_No,_ Dean signed angrily. _We keep doing what Dad told us. We can’t just disappear somewhere. He might need our help._

“And he might _not_. You know Dad; he’s probably chasing some stupid lead about who he can be pissed with. Talk about bearing grudges...”

_Fuck you._

They walked in silence. Something about that amused Sam. With a mute brother as his only source of company, it was _always_ silent, but he’d come to realise that there was silence and there was _silence_ , and this was definitely the latter.

This certainly wasn’t a new argument, but it was as pointless as every other time they’d had it. Dean had an unfailing belief in their father’s actions, regardless of the effect it had on them. Sam, on the other hand, saw every wound it caused in graphic detail, particularly to his brother.

Before Sam could work out how to re-open the lines of communication, they’d reached the stores they’d seen when they first arrived in the area. Dean headed for the first one in the row, which appeared to have been a general store. There was evidence that some of the planks used to board up the store had been removed – never a good sign, as it usually meant the store had already been raided and anything of worth taken – but it was always worth a look.

They made short work of the remaining planks over one of the windows and were inside within a minute. After a quick sweep of the place, they were satisfied they weren’t about to be ambushed by Croats or other survivors and set about seeing what they could take.

Ignoring the stench of decay, they moved up and down the aisles. Experience had taught them what to look for – even twenty-two years after the Croatoan virus had brought the world to a standstill, some goods were still worth taking. Anything canned in alcohol or that naturally had a high acidic content could possibly still be edible, so they’d grab that. 

In the intervening years, the animal population had flourished, so meat and fish were always in fresh supply for those that could hunt. Naturally their father had trained them well, so they rarely went hungry. However, anything they could salvage from the old days was a welcome bonus.

“Hey, check it out,” Sam called out with a grin. When Dean looked over he waved a couple of Twinkies at him. Dean rolled his eyes. Through the gloom, Sam could just about make out the signs as Dean replied.

_Great. They’ll still be around even after the fucking cockroaches have gone._

Sam laughed, relieved that Dean wasn’t still brooding over their earlier disagreement. They resumed their search, loading goods into their bags with practised efficiency, one ear always listening out for Croats. They’d been caught out before so it was a diligence they took seriously. 

Sam was investigating some bags of white rice when Dean whistled. He could differentiate between a whistle to indicate an emergency and one simply to get his attention, and this was the latter. When he looked up, Dean was grinning and pointing towards a window at the back of the store. Abandoning the rice, he stood and went to see what Dean had found.

Stacked up outside were boxes covered with a heavy tarp, all housed under a precarious-looking wooden shelter. The location had kept the weather off and even through the grimy window he could make out the words ‘methylated spirits’ on one of the rotting cardboard boxes.

_Jackpot,_ Dean signed and Sam knew his brother would already be doing a mental calculation as to how many bottles they could take with them and how long that would keep the car going for. Sam was good at math, but the mental calculations Dean did and the _speed_ at which he could do them was truly astounding.

Sam was just about to voice a reply when Dean held up a finger, all good humour instantly gone from his expression. At times like this, Sam couldn’t help but think of Dean as a gundog, front leg raised, tail stiff, scenting the air in anticipation of _something_. Dean was also rarely wrong, so he followed his brother’s lead and raised his gun. 

Agonizing seconds passed and Sam was just contemplating asking Dean what was up when he heard a sound from outside. It was a scratching, shuffling sound, slowly getting louder. Suddenly a face appeared in the window they’d gained entry through, a broad grin breaking onto the man’s face when he realised there were other people here.

“Hey, guys,” the man said affably. He looked to be in his fifties, with straggly greying hair and yellowed teeth. “You wanna get the door so I can come in?”

“No,” Sam said flatly. “How about you tell us what it is you’re looking for and we’ll tell you if there’s any in here.”

“Come on,” the man implored. “What’s the harm? Let me in! I’m not gonna hurt you boys.”

Sam didn’t need to look to know that Dean was rolling his eyes.

“Sir, I’m gonna ask you one last time. Tell us what you want or leave.”

The guy suddenly gave an animalistic roar and drove his fists into the remaining planks, splintering wood and hitting the jagged glass that remained around the edges. His knuckles were instantly obliterated, but he drew them back to repeat the action, seemingly oblivious to his injuries. He never got chance to go for that second strike as a bullet hole appeared in his forehead and he disappeared from view, his body making a dull thump as he hit the sidewalk.

Sam sighed as Dean lowered his weapon and shook his head.

_Fucking Croats,_ Dean signed. _Come on, let’s get what we came for._

They didn’t really talk again until they were back at the motel. A couple of weeks back they’d found some bottles of whiskey at an old farmhouse they’d explored. Dean, clearly buoyed from finding a decent supply of fuel for the car, poured them a tumbler each and they sat and toasted a successful supply run. 

Sam was studying the amber liquid when Dean waved to get his attention.

_What’s up?_

“Nothing.”

_It was that Croat, wasn’t it? Why’d you always try to talk to them?_

Dean had put his drink down so that he could sign more fluently. His hands were poised, ready to respond to whatever Sam would say next. Sam shrugged.

“There’s always a chance that they could be a survivor, Dean.”

_So? Probably still need to put a bullet in them._

Sam shook his head, aware of his rising irritation. He hated his brother’s innate cynicism. 

“Don’t you ever wonder, Dean, about others? There’ll be other people like us out there, you know.”

Dean frowned and signed, _So?_ , again.

“Don’t you want to _meet_ them? Don’t you have any interest in finding out how others live?” 

_No. Clearly you do, though. Is it that bad being stuck with me?_

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean was obviously hurt by what he perceived as Sam’s attempt to expand his social circle, but he displayed it as anger instead.

“No, Dean, it’s not about that at all. I just think we shouldn’t automatically shut everyone out.”

_Safer,_ Dean signed emphatically. _We can’t trust other people._

_You_ can’t, Sam thought, but he didn’t say it. 

OoOoO

They spent the next couple of days exploring the neighborhood. The large supply of ethanol still ranked as their best find, but they also were able to replenish their food stocks and add some valuable ammunition to the arsenal they carried in the trunk of the car. 

With the area swept, it seemed logical to move on, but it raised the obvious issue of where they went next. Sam knew looking for their father would still be front and center in his brother’s mind, and he wasn’t about to disagree – he was just tired of having no discernible plan of attack. 

Although John didn’t talk in detail about his sojourns, names did get mentioned in passing – there was a Caleb, a guy called Jim who was possibly a pastor and someone called Bobby Singer. In Sam’s mind, their next step should be trying to find these people.

Dean, as always, was happy for them to go it alone and had nixed any of Sam’s previous suggestions to look for the people John associated with. It didn’t hurt to try again though.

“Dean?” Sam said as his brother emerged from the bathroom, freshly washed and towelling his face off following a shave. Dean nodded to show he was listening.

“I’ve been thinking... about Dad’s contacts,” he said, studying his brother’s expression to gauge how well this conversation was going. “And aside from a few names, we’ve got _squat_ , but didn’t Dad mention some kind of roadhouse that he stopped off at a few times?”

Watching Dean meant he could tell that his brother was weighing up whether to admit that he knew that information as well. He eventually nodded.

“I’m sure when he talked about it once, he said it was in Nebraska somewhere. Logan or Lincoln or somewhere like that?”

_Lincoln_ , Dean replied, finger spelling the name. He looked unhappy, but resigned. Sam figured Dean had also reached the conclusion that the time had come to start putting the feelers out, even if he hated the thought of doing it.

Sam nodded solemnly, not wanting to show Dean he was pleased that his brother was acquiescing at last.

“Lincoln it is then.”

OoOoO

It took them a full day’s travel to reach Nebraska. They passed through Omaha, stopping briefly to check on a supply bunker they’d set up several months earlier and stash some of the items they’d come across recently. They had similar bunkers all over the country to ensure they were never far from supplies, should they need them – another John Winchester duty they would almost certainly continue with even if their dad never returned.

When they reached Lincoln, they set about trying to find the location of the roadhouse. Dean, now that he was onboard with the plan, had admitted he knew a few other details from things their dad had said, which helped narrow it down a little. 

They spent the day driving around with no luck, their optimism fading with the daylight. A night in the car, in low temperatures, did little for their moods and the following morning, Sam was contemplating suggesting that they call off the search. 

They ate meager rations at the roadside and set off again, eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of the roadhouse. After several hours, Sam was about to propose that they head for somewhere that had once been more populated and look for supplies so it wasn’t a completely wasted trip, when Dean suddenly slammed on the brakes.

“Shit, Dean! You wanna give me a heads up when you’re gonna do that?” Sam complained. 

Recovering from the unexpected jolt, he followed the direction of Dean’s gaze. Past his brother’s head, out of the driver’s side window, Sam could make out a building set back a few hundred feet from the road. Dean turned to look at him, the unspoken question in his expression.

“Worth a try,” Sam said with a shrug. 

Dean put the car into reverse until they found the dirt track that led up to the building. They’d never actually discussed what they’d do if they found the place, but Dean didn’t appear to be too worried about having that talk now. Going in armed usually sufficed in his brother’s books. 

At first glance, the roadhouse looked abandoned. Sam glanced across at his brother, whose own gaze was fixed on the run-down edifice.

“You wanna go in?” Sam asked doubtfully.

Dean shrugged, but he was already getting out of the car. With no choice but to follow his brother, Sam sighed and started after him. Guns in hand, they climbed onto the porch, scanning for signs of life. Dean tried the door and it opened.

The interior was dark, unsurprising with some of the windows still boarded up. Dean moved left and Sam went right, weapons drawn. Sam was just about to remark that the place seemed empty when the door in front of him opened and a guy stepped out sporting the worst mullet he’d ever seen outside of a photograph of life in the 1980s. The guy’s eyes grew wide when he noticed he had company – and company that had a gun pointed at his face. His hands went up in a gesture of surrender as Dean then emerged from the shadows, weapon also trained on him.

“Uh, Ellen?” the guy said without turning. “You’ve got customers.”

From behind him a woman emerged, looking first surprised and then annoyed at the sight of their guns. She was followed by a younger girl who bore more than a passing resemblance to the other woman. Mother and daughter, Sam reasoned, putting the younger woman at a similar age to himself.

“What the...?” the older of the pair started to say before her eyes narrowed and she studied each of them in turn. “Wait - you look like... are you John Winchester’s boys?”

Not willing to let his guard down, Sam quickly threw a glance at his brother, whose expression hadn’t changed. Either he didn’t know this woman or he didn’t care for the fact that she knew them.

“Are you Sam or Dean?” she asked Sam, since he was closest. 

Neither she nor the other girl appeared the least bit fazed that they had weapons. The mullet guy remained silent, eyes flicking back and forth, hands still raised presumably in the hope that he wasn’t about to get shot.

“I’m Sam,” Sam replied. “How do you know our dad?”

The woman, Ellen, smiled.

“John’s stopped by here more than a few times.” She nodded towards an old photograph pinned up behind the bar where, sure enough, John was featured in amongst the other patrons. He was sitting next to an older guy with a beard, the other man’s face partly obscured by a worn cap. John was unsmiling, as usual.

“I’m Ellen, this is my daughter, Jo.” She moved behind the bar and started to pour whiskey into some tumblers. Neither brother moved.

“You know, if you’re gonna shoot Ash, could you do it elsewhere? I’ve just mopped the floor.”

The comment, plus Ash’s indignant reaction, broke the tension and Sam laughed. He lowered his weapon, even though he could feel Dean’s glare.

“Sam? Dean? You want one?” Ellen said as she knocked back her own drink.

With a quick apologetic glance at Ash, Sam put his gun away and moved over to the bar. Ash disappeared into the back room, passing Jo who studiously ignored him in favour of appraising the newcomers.

“Thanks.”

“Dean?” Ellen said, pushing the glass towards the glowering figure. 

After a long moment, Dean put his own gun away, glanced quickly at Sam, and then took the proffered drink.

“So are you all hunters?” Sam asked. 

Ellen shrugged. “We’re more of a... ‘hunters’ retreat’, for those passing through. So what brings you boys here?” she asked.

“Our dad’s missing,” Sam replied, seeing no reason to lie. “It’s not unusual for him to be away for a few weeks, but it’s been two months. He might need help, so we thought we’d start with some of his contacts.”

Ellen nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I’m sorry, but John’s not been here for at least five months, maybe six.”

Sam glanced over to Dean, who jerked his head in a _‘let’s go’_ motion.

“But we might be able to help.”

Sam hadn’t moved, but he could tell by the way Dean halted that his brother was at least prepared to hear Ellen out.

“Ash keeps tabs on what’s going on out there. He’s got connections that he can call on, ask around for you? I know John’s hooked up with some of the other hunters that Ash is in communication with.”

Sam looked at Dean, whose body was still angled towards the door. He signed quickly to Dean.

_Up to you. I’ve not got any better ideas._

Dean gave the exit one last longing glance and then abruptly sat down. 

OoOoO

“So what’s the deal with your brother?” Jo asked, glancing around to where Dean was pacing. Sam turned too. Dean was fingering the cord of the amulet around his neck, something he did habitually when he was uncomfortable. 

“He the strong, silent type or something?”

Sam huffed a polite laugh. “Something like that.”

“You were signing to each other. Is he deaf?”

“No.”

“But he signs?”

“Yeah.”

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He could understand the curiosity, but it didn’t mean he should be subjected to the Spanish Inquisition either. Jo was still staring at Dean, who was either oblivious to the scrutiny or pointedly trying to ignore it. 

“Dean can hear,” he said, “but he doesn’t speak.”

“ _Ever?_ ”

“No.”

Jo frowned, evidently thinking she was missing something.

“How does he get your attention when you’re not looking at him then?”

“He whistles.”

“Huh. What if he hits his thumb with a hammer?”

“He kicks the crap out of something.”

Jo grinned at him suggestively. “What about when he comes?”

Sam fixed her with an unhappy glare. “Tell you what: why don’t you go and ask him? I’m sure you won’t need me to translate ‘fuck off’ for you.”

Her smile faded. “Sorry,” she muttered after a moment’s silence. “I was just joking. It gets a little dull in here when all you see is the same four walls and the same bored faces.”

“If it keeps you safe...” Sam countered.

Jo made a face. “Safe is boring, Sam. I wanna be out there hunting.”

“Safe’s also _alive_. I could think of worse things.”

Jo turned away and Sam wondered if she was sulking. Across the room, Dean’s posture and expression radiated tension. Although Dean had agreed to come, Sam had known it wouldn’t be easy for him since Dean didn’t respond well to other people. Behind him the door opened and Ash stepped out, one hand scrubbing across his untidy mullet.

“Well, there’s good news and bad.”

“Okay,” Sam said, aware the others were listening. “What’ve you got?”

“Okay,” Ash repeated as he wandered over and accepted the drink Ellen passed to him. “There’s a chance I can track where your dad went.”

“I’m guessing that’s the good news.”

“Yeah. The bad news is it might take me a couple of days.”

Sam glanced over at his brother, but Dean’s expression told him nothing. Since they didn’t come into contact with many people, he’d forgotten how shuttered his brother could be around others.

“You boys can stay here,” Ellen said. “I’ve got a free room upstairs; you’re welcome to use it.”

It sounded like a good idea, but Sam knew it wasn’t solely his decision to make. He offered Ellen a grateful smile. Evidently she sensed his reluctance to decide while there were others present.

“Up to you boys; I won’t be offended if you say no.”

She knew they’d need to talk so she picked up a pile of bar rags and disappeared into the back room, shooing Ash and Jo with her. Sam turned to his brother, knowing that even though they were alone, Dean wouldn’t entertain any discussion unless he signed too.

_What do you think?_ Sam began.

Dean huffed and shook his head. _I don’t know. How’d we know we can trust them?_ Dean’s motions were jerky and angry. 

Sam rolled his eyes. _Have they given us any reason not to? You saw the picture, Dad’s been here. He must have trusted them._

Dean didn’t respond immediately. Sam knew he’d be at war with himself now – unhappy that he might be about to make a different decision to the one their father had made. Dean’s hands were still for a moment, then he started to sign, but it was hesitant and he stopped a couple of times before delivering his verdict.

_Fine, we’ll stay._

Sam nodded, relieved that Dean had been persuaded – for now at least. 

OoOoO

While Ash worked, Dean told Sam he’d take the opportunity to do some work on the car. It didn’t need work – it _never_ needed any work – but Sam wasn’t about to force his brother to be around people more than was necessary. Jo had also disappeared, leaving Sam alone with Ellen.

“You need a hand with anything?” he asked, wanting to make himself useful. 

She smiled. “Okay. You wanna help me move some boxes?”

“Sure.”

He followed her through into a storeroom, stocked high with crates and boxes. Evidently she noticed his raised eyebrows as she laughed suddenly.

“We’re a roadhouse, Sam. We need stuff to sell.”

“You take money?” he asked, surprised. He knew about currency, but there’d never been any use for it in his lifetime. 

She cocked her head. “Figure of speech; we trade stuff – food, information, you know.”

“D’you get a lot of business?”

“Not much. It’s mostly the same faces, but it’s not like we’ve got rent or an electricity bill to pay, so we’re good.”

“Awesome,” Sam replied, trying to imagine what it would be like to stay in one place and failing, so alien was the concept to him. “Okay. Tell me what you want moving.”

OoOoo

“You know,” Ellen said after they’d been working a while. “You probably don’t remember, but you came here a few times with your dad when you were little.”

Sam looked up. “Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t think you were even twelve months old the first time you came.”

The question was on Sam’s lips instantly, but he hesitated to ask it for a moment, feeling disloyal to his brother by talking about him when he wasn’t there. 

“What was Dean like back then?”

Ellen smiled fondly as she recalled the memories, but the expression was also tinged with sadness. 

“He was a very, _very_ serious little boy. Don’t think I ever saw him smile, apart from at you.”

“Did... did you ever hear him talk?”

“Not directly,” Ellen replied, shaking her head. “I think he talked to you and sang to you, but it was rare to hear him actually doing it. It was like he always knew when people were listening.”

Sam nodded. “I wish I could remember that.”

“Doesn’t he talk when you’re on your own?” Ellen asked, surprised.

“No. I’ve never heard him speak.”

She seemed to process this for a moment. They both started to move the boxes again. 

“I know a little ASL,” Ellen said after another minute or so had passed. “Granted, I’m hella rusty, but I couldn’t recognise any of the signs when you were talking to each other.”

Sam smiled as he handed her a crate, the bottles rattling loudly.

“When my dad realised Dean wasn’t going to speak, he managed to find a couple of ASL books, but for the most part, the signs are ones we’ve invented.”

“So it’s like your own private language,” she mused.

Sam paused, his expression thoughtful. “Yeah. I never really thought of it like that, but I guess it is.”

“Is that never a problem for Dean?”

He considered the question and shook his head. 

“It’s not really because we live on our own. As you’ve probably gathered, Dean’s not exactly one for socialising. My dad never said anything to you when he’s been here?”

Ellen shrugged. “I asked him a few times why he didn’t bring you boys back here when you were older. I thought it would have been good for you to get a change of scenery and Jo sure as hell would have liked the company, but your daddy never really gave me a reason, and he’s not the kind of man you push.”

They exchanged wry smiles. Clearly Ellen had a good handle on his dad beyond one grainy photograph. Her smile faded.

“Once, when he was drinking hard, he told me Dean had problems - that he worried for him, for the both of you. He said so long as you stuck together you’d be okay.”

“And we will. He’s my brother.”

Ellen nodded. “Does it get lonely, Sam?”

He could feel her scrutiny and it was almost impossible not to get defensive. He knew if he did, it would just prove her point, regardless of whatever denial he issued.

“Not often, but yeah... sometimes, maybe.” He ran a hand across his hair in frustration. “Being so young when it all happened, I’ve never known any different. I see the world – Dean just sees everything that’s bad about it.”

“That’s understandable, and this is no disrespect to you, Sam, but Jo’s like you – she doesn’t see what we went through to survive when the virus first hit. Like you said, the world as it is now is all you’ve ever known and I guess it’s hard to understand why we’re not just out there making the most of it. Dean... Dean saw everything and at an age when something like that would make a deep impact on a child’s psyche. The virus did a lot more damage than just turning people into Croats, Sam,” she said gently.

She laid a hand on his arm, and for a moment Sam was overwhelmed by her kindness. He wanted to run and tell Dean that they were okay here, that there _were_ people who understood them and wouldn’t judge, but Dean was intractable: it was the Winchesters against the world, and the world was everyone else in it, with no exceptions.

“If you can convince Dean,” she said after a moment’s silence, as if she was reading his thoughts. “Then you’re welcome here any time.”

Sam nodded gratefully and they resumed work in silence. 

OoOoO

Ellen made dinner later on. Ash didn’t emerge from wherever it was that he’d gone to work, so Jo took him a plate. She rolled her eyes when she reappeared, muttering something about him being ‘a massive geek’.

When he’d finished working on the car, Dean had stayed outside exploring the lay of the land around the roadhouse. Sam hadn’t been certain that his brother would surface for dinner, but he’d come in, going upstairs to wash before joining Ellen, Jo and himself at the table in the back room. He sat down next to Sam, but looked far from relaxed. 

At this distance, Sam could smell whiskey, leading him to the conclusion that the only thing that had gotten Dean through the door was a liberal amount of neat alcohol.

“Serve yourselves, boys,” Ellen said, placing the dishes down in the centre of the table. There was a steaming stew with extra servings of vegetables. “The veg is all home grown, Jo shot the deer yesterday.”

Jo smiled proudly, clearly hoping that this news would impress their visitors. Sam smiled politely, but Dean’s gaze was fixed on the table. Ellen returned, setting beers down in front of them all.

Sam studied the bottle and frowned.

“Beer? Seriously?”

Ellen smiled. “Homebrew. What kind of roadhouse would we be without beer? If the Egyptians could do it, so can we.”

There was silence for a while as they all concentrated on the food.

“So,” Jo said after the silence had gone on long enough. Beside him, Sam felt Dean tense. “Where exactly do you guys live?”

Sam knew she was in some way hoping that Dean would be the one to respond. She’d have to remain disappointed. 

“Everywhere and nowhere, I guess you could say,” he replied with an easy smile, hoping to deflect the attention from his brother, who would certainly bolt if she continued expressing an interest in him. “We’ve never really set down roots anywhere. I guess you could say our car’s our home.”

Jo grinned. “Yeah, your car’s _sweet_. I wouldn’t mind a ride in it sometime.”

Before Sam could come up with suitably diplomatic response, Ellen said, “Jo, go and take Ash a beer please.”

Jo left the room. Dean had stopped eating and was holding the fork with a tension that threatened to bend the implement. Sam looked at Ellen apologetically and was met with a similar expression.

“I’m sorry, boys. She doesn’t get a lot of opportunity to talk to people your age. She doesn’t mean any harm.”

“It’s okay,” Sam replied, glancing quickly at Dean who looked up at Ellen fleetingly and nodded sharply once. 

Jo returned and sat down. Clearly the order from her mother had had the desired effect and she didn’t ask any more questions for the remainder of the meal. 

OoOoO

Whatever could be said about Ash’s choice of hairstyle, you had to give credit where credit was due for his investigative skills. It took two days he said it would, but while Dean was chopping firewood for Ellen and Sam was out hunting with Jo, Ash emerged with news. Finding himself alone, he contented himself with a drink. He knew Dean was outside, but Sam was the easier brother to talk to, so he’d wait.

Twenty minutes later Sam and Jo arrived back, between them carrying a mule deer carcass and a couple of quails. They were both grinning and flushed from the effort. Seeing Ash, Sam’s face instantly lost all humour.

“Have you found him?”

Ash nodded. “I think so.”

Sam echoed the movement, but something in his expression looked conflicted. “I’ll go get Dean,” was all he said, before he turned and headed back outside.

It wasn’t long before the sound of booted feet could be heard and the front door flew open, admitting first Dean and then Sam. Jo had taken the spoils of their hunt through to the store room and gone to find her mother, and for a moment Ash wished he’d told her to stay. He took a large mouthful of whiskey and tried not to wilt under the intense gaze of the Winchesters.

“So what have you got, Ash?” Sam asked, as he came to sit at the table. Dean hovered in the background, his eyes asking the exact same question.

“Your dad hooked up with a hunter called Bobby Singer in South Dakota. Bobby’s a, uh... conspiracy nut – of which I wholeheartedly approve,” he added with a grin that quickly disappeared when he noticed Dean’s hard gaze. “They were following a lead about where the virus originated. They left Bobby’s place two weeks ago and headed to Atlanta.”

Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Ash watched as Dean signed something and Sam nodded.

“Have you any idea where they were heading to in Atlanta?”

“Better,” Ash replied with a grin borne of confidence and the knowledge that he was about to deliver good news. “I’ve got an address.”

OoOoO

There was no discussion about what they’d do next. Within an hour, their car was loaded up and they were ready to go, although they had acquiesced to Ellen’s suggestion that they stay for one last meal before they set off.

Jo had grown sullen at the news they were leaving. Her mood worsened when her request to go with them was met with undisguised amusement from Dean and a horrified, simultaneous ‘no’ from Sam and her mother.

They plotted their route, ensuring that they would pass several of their supply bunkers on the way. With nothing left to do after they’d eaten, and Dean increasingly anxious to get going, they said their goodbyes.

“You know you can come back here anytime,” Ellen said, after she’d hugged Sam and nodded to Dean, who was already climbing behind the wheel of their car. “Our door’s always open.”

“We appreciate that,” Sam replied warmly. He glanced at Dean, who signed, _thanks._

“You take care now,” Ellen said, as she closed Sam’s door and stepped back as the car moved off.

Out of his peripheral vision, Sam observed his brother as they drove away from the roadhouse. Behind the wheel of his beloved car and away from others, Dean was a different guy. Aware that Sam was watching him, Dean flashed him a grin. With his eyes still fixed on the road, Dean rummaged under the seat to where he kept a box of tapes, grabbed one, and shoved it into the cassette player. After a short period of silence, the sounds of Led Zeppelin filled the car. Sam knew every single note of these songs, since both his dad and Dean worshiped at the altar of rock, but he often found himself wondering if there were still people out there creating _new_ music - music that very few would ever actually get to hear.

Sam spent a lot of time wondering about life ‘before’. Neither their dad, nor Dean would talk about it in any depth, and their isolated, nomadic existence prevented him from finding out information from other survivors. John had given both of his sons a basic education, but where Dean was happy with rudimentary literacy skills and had no real interest in the past, Sam had diligently studied and regularly scoured libraries and bookshops in the abandoned places they passed through, all to further his understanding of how people had lived before the Croatoan virus had changed everything.

When they drove through cities, he tried to imagine the sidewalks full of people, traffic signals filtering a never-ending procession of vehicles, horns honking as everyone tried to get to their destinations as quickly as possible. Now, Dean didn’t even slow for intersections – there was no point; just empty roads on top of more empty roads. On the rare occasions they actually saw anyone, they still didn’t stop. Dean saw everyone as a Croat first, and with them safe in the car, there was no point actually wasting the bullets.

The journey took them a couple of days. Their supply bunkers were still there, and reassuringly, there were signs that John had stopped off at them too. They took what they needed and carried on.

OoOoO

The address in Atlanta that Ash had given them took them into Sylvan Hills, to a single storey ranch-style house that looked in no better state of repair than its ramshackle neighbours. They’d hidden the car several streets away and had done an initial scout of the area before heading back to the house to decide on their next move. 

When Sam had asked what was at the address, Ash had explained that he thought a group of survivors were using it as a base of operations, but from the outside it looked as if no one had been near the house in years. They were experienced enough, and had just enough of John Winchester’s suspicious nature to know they’d need to do more than just look before they reached any conclusions.

_You ready?_ Dean asked, after another period of observation had resulted in the princely sum of nothing.

Sam nodded, mentally doing an inventory of the various concealed weapons that he carried. Although Dean was the one who came alive at the thought of action, he allowed himself to be carried by the rising tide of adrenaline as they silently made their way across the street to the house.

_You want front or back?_ Dean signed.

“Front,” Sam replied without hesitation. He wanted to think that, if they’d found this mystery group of survivors, there was a chance he could talk them into inviting them in, without weapons being necessary.

He gave Dean a few minutes to get into position around the back. When he heard a quick whistle, he headed for the front door, hand resting on the pistol in his pocket. He knocked loudly.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

He waited, listening, knowing Dean would be doing the same around the back. After a couple of minutes, he shouted again. “I’m looking for John Winchester. I’m his son.”

Another ten, twenty seconds passed, and then there was a movement from inside. Footsteps approached and Sam tightened his grip on his gun.

“Is John here?” he asked. “Ash from Harvelle’s Roadhouse told me I could find him here.”

He hoped the name dropping would gain him access and for once, fortune was smiling upon him as he heard the bolts being drawn back.

He was greeted by a man sporting a deep scowl and a shotgun, the latter pointed directly at his face when the door swung open. The man, who looked to be somewhere in his fifties, sized him up.

“John Winchester’s son, huh?” the man smirked. “Guess you’re not the one who’s dumb, but _not_ deaf.”

Sam visibly bristled. A part of him hoped that Dean would appear behind the old bastard, with his gun cocked, just to wipe the smirk off his face.

“I’m Sam,” he said, through gritted teeth. “And for future reference, my brother’s name is Dean.”

“Yeah? So, where is he then?”

“He’s here,” a voice answered, and from out of what Sam presumed was the kitchen, a large African American woman emerged, hands in the air, her expression annoyed. Dean followed her out, his gun trained on her. Sam sighed. This was going well.

Ignoring Dean for the moment, Sam turned his attention to the woman.

“Sorry about my brother. We’re looking for John Winchester. We’re his-”

“Sons, I know,” the woman replied sharply. She glanced back at Dean and then the older man holding the shotgun. “For the love of God, Daniel, the boy’s not gonna put his gun away if you don’t.”

She glared briefly at Sam and then fixed Dean with a look that could curdle milk. “Boy, I was in the middle of fixing myself something to eat when you _rudely_ interrupted. Now, I’m going to go back in there, so I suggest you move.” She pushed past Dean, then stopped and threw a glance over her shoulder at them both. “ _Especially_ if you’re wanting to be fed.”

Dean’s face was a picture and Sam couldn’t prevent his smile. When Dean looked at him, he shrugged and made to follow after the woman.

“Name’s Missouri Mosley,” she said as she bustled around the kitchen. She paused from the bread she was cutting and looked Sam up and down. “Who’d have thought you’d have gotten so tall,” she said, a faint smile on her lips as she shook her head in apparent disbelief.

Sam glanced back at Dean, who had decided to heed Missouri’s words and put his gun away before he joined them in the kitchen.

“You’ve met us before?”

Her smile grew. “I most certainly have, and although this one doesn’t smile any more than he did back then, you both grew handsome.”

She patted the chair near where she was working. “Come. Sit.”

Sam did as she asked. Dean hesitated, then went and took the seat across from his brother. There was silence as Missouri worked, punctuated only by the sounds of the other hunter, Daniel, moving around in another part of the house. Sam glanced up at Dean’s hand movement – a quick flick of his fingers that he did when he wanted his brother’s attention.

_Ask her about Dad. Is he here or has he moved on?_

Missouri paused – she was watching Dean carefully, her expression unreadable.

“I know you want to know about your dad, honey,” she replied directly to Dean. “And although he’s not here right now, he’s not moved on either. Does that answer your question?”

Sam knew he was gaping. Dean’s expression was more guarded, like he’d feel far more comfortable with his gun in his hand. Over the years, their signs had become almost exclusively idiosyncratic so by rights, no one should be able to understand them.

“How did you...?” Sam started to say. Missouri smiled fondly.

“I have... certain talents.”

“Like, mind reading?” Sam asked.

Missouri considered this for a moment, and then nodded. “A little.”

Sam watched as she suddenly looked at Dean sharply. 

“What? Do I look like a performing seal to you? And that’s a disgusting thing to be thinking about!”

Dean smirked and looked down at the table. Sam stifled a laugh, but when Missouri looked at him, he could see a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. Again, he was hit by the bewildering thought: _why did Dad keep us away from all these people?_

“Anyway, let’s eat,” she said.

It turned out that Missouri and the other man, who she identified as Daniel Elkins were part of a small group of hunters who had spent years chasing leads on Croatoan. There had always been theories about where the virus had come from, but these people had actively pursued those theories, determined to find the truth or a cure or _something._

Personally, Sam wasn’t sure what it would change if they actually discovered anything, but he was always interested because it meant people often talked about the old days and how things used to be. Missouri talked a lot.

What Sam found fascinating was how she paused every so often, head cocked slightly to one side as if she was listening to something that only she could hear. She’d then speak, but always as if she was answering a question. Every so often Sam glanced across at his brother, but Dean appeared to be studiously avoiding eye contact with everyone. He was fingering the amulet on its cord, but his expression was serious rather than ill at ease.

“So where exactly has our dad gone?” Sam asked Missouri, once they’d finished eating and they were starting to clear away the plates.

“Fort Gillem,” she replied. “He and Bobby Singer went to scout the place out.”

“What’s there?” he asked, glancing quickly at Dean.

“Military base,” Daniel Elkins replied gruffly, scratching at a spot on the table without looking up.

When Sam looked at Missouri, she nodded in confirmation. “It was built in the forties and there’s a lab there – nothing overly grand, mind, which is what made it perfect to do secret testing. Anyway, a month ago Bobby heard chatter that the virus might have been developed there, so they decided to go check it out. They left first thing this morning. I thought they’d have been back by now.”

She glanced at Dean in that way she’d been doing ever since they arrived. 

“It’s about twenty minutes by car.”

He didn’t need Missouri’s ‘certain talents’ to know what his brother was thinking. He also knew it would be useless trying to argue that they should stay here when they were finally so close to finding their father.

Daniel gave him directions while Dean went to fetch the car. While he waited for his brother to return, he went to speak to Missouri again. Something in her expression earlier had troubled him. He told her as much and she smiled without humour.

“I’m sorry, honey.” She waved a hand, as if she was trying to dismiss what she was about to say. “It’s probably nothing...”

“But?”

“Your... your brother. I’m sensing hard times ahead for him, even though he doesn’t know it yet.”

Fear slithered through his veins. He struggled to find his voice. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, honey; I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work that way. All I know is that you need to be there for him, even if you don’t always agree with his decisions. He needs you.”

More confused than ever, he simply nodded. The sound of the Impala broke the silence, the roar dropping to a purr as Dean pulled up outside the house. The idling engine indicated that his brother wasn’t intending to come back inside.

“I should go,” he said to Missouri.

Dean sat behind the wheel with a furrowed brow, as he slid into the seat beside him. He contemplated telling his brother what Missouri had just told him, but decided against it.

_You ready?_ Dean asked, without really looking over.

“Yeah.”

Dean’s face suddenly burst into a wide grin.

_Let’s go find Dad then._

Sam nodded, forcing a smile. Something didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t articulate what.

Dean took the roads Daniel Elkins had described, his speed a reflection of his desire to finally catch up with their father. Sam always found it amazing how easily Dean forgave John – after all, it wasn’t like they’d gotten a message from him telling them to come here. He’d abandoned them, plain and simple. He also knew that if John sent them away, Dean would go without a backward glance. He got angry just thinking about it and had every intention of telling their dad what he thought of this latest disappearing act once they found him.

He knew they must be close because they’d been driving for about fifteen minutes. He was scanning the horizon looking for anything that might resemble a military base when he saw the smoke.

“Dean?”

Out of his peripheral vision he saw Dean jerk his chin. _What?_

He pointed out of his window to the thick acrid-looking smoke rising from behind some trees, then Dean – still following the directions – made a right, and suddenly they were heading straight towards it.


	2. Chapter 2

Fort Gillem was in flames.

Sam glanced at his brother, who seemed paralyzed by the scene before them. Whatever they thought they were coming to, it was clear that they were too late. As one of the buildings crashed in on itself, Sam realised Dean was tapping him insistently on the arm.

_We need to look for Dad._

Sam watched Dean form the signs, but his brain was still processing the devastation before them. His shook his head, the action bringing a little clarity.

“What? _No_. Dean, we can’t go in there now.”

_We have to!_

His counter argument never had chance to leave his lips. Dean had set off running, giving him no choice but to follow. He caught up with Dean where the path split.

_You go that way. Yell if you find him. Meet back at the gate._

Dean’s plan had now gone from stupid to insane, but something in Sam obeyed. He went left and Dean went right.

OoOoO

Dean was certain his lungs were catching fire. His eyes stung even though they were mostly useless because there was nothing to see in the smoky blackness, but he plunged on, adrenaline-fueled panic winning out over common sense. The building he entered was filled with smoke, but as he made his search, he closed doors to keep the worst of the smoke and heat at bay.

He moved through a doorway, his sleeve pushed against his face. From the little he could see, it looked as if he’d found the office block and he was about to turn and leave when he saw a huddled shape on the floor sticking out from behind a desk. He stumbled forwards, fear mounting with every step.

John Winchester looked dead, but as Dean dropped to his knees beside him, he opened his eyes and frowned in confusion. He was bleeding from a gunshot wound to his chest.

“Dean?” the single word came from his mouth followed by a cough that expelled blood and sputum.

_Come on,_ Dean urged, not sure if his Dad was paying attention enough to follow the signs. He grabbed John’s jacket in an attempt to haul the other man upright but John’s hand shot out to stop him.

“Wait, Dean. I need to tell you something.”

_He’s delirious_ , Dean thought, jumping as the sudden screech of metal told him that another structure had surrendered to the flames somewhere off to their left.

“Listen, Dean,” John said, his voice sounding stronger and more insistent this time. “I need to tell you something about the virus... and Sam.”

OoOoO

Sam’s search had yielded nothing, which he hoped was a good thing. His path had taken him closer to the actual fire but eventually he was beaten back by the heat and smoke. As he retraced his steps, his realised there was a figure up ahead – a figure he realised that was neither Dean nor their Dad.

“Hey! Stop!” 

Hearing the shout, the man turned. His face was black with soot, but Sam instantly felt like he’d seen him before. They held their guns on each other, then it came to him: _the photograph at Harvelle’s Roadhouse._

“Bobby? Bobby Singer?” he yelled and the change in the other man’s expression confirmed it. He lowered his weapon as Bobby did the same and closed the distance between them. “Where’s my dad? He’s here with you, right?”

Bobby frowned. “You’re Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“We split up to look for information, but we were ambushed.”

“Croats?”

“Other hunters. Where’s your brother?” Bobby asked.

“He wanted to look for our dad. He went the other way.”

“Idjit,” Bobby breathed, lifting his cap and wiping a hand across his head, smearing the soot further. “This whole place is gonna go soon.”

“I tried to tell him,” Sam said desperately. “But he wouldn’t listen. I’ve gotta go look for him.”

Bobby shook his head, but made to follow him.

“What is it with you damned Winchesters?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

They reached the place where they’d split up and barely gone ten meters before Dean staggered into view, half-dragging, half-carrying their father. 

“Dean!” 

Sam ran towards them as Dean looked up, his face a mask of devastation. Seeing the cavalry, Dean collapsed suddenly, pitching him and John face forwards. Sam reached them just in time to stop them both hitting the concrete, but they landed on top of him awkwardly. Nearby – _too_ nearby – something exploded.

“Let’s get them out of here,” Bobby yelled. 

Ears ringing from the blast, Sam sucked in a breath as Bobby lifted the dead weight of his brother off of him. Between them, they managed to get both casualties - _casualties_ , not bodies, Sam told himself - out to Bobby’s truck. He jumped into the cab beside the other man, saying a mental apology to his brother that they’d have to leave the Impala behind for now. Dean would kill him later – assuming there would _be_ a later.

OoOoO

Dean awoke to a pain in his chest like he’d never known before. His lungs felt scorched, and when he was finally able to recall the time before he’d lost consciousness, he realised that they probably were. Fort Gillem. The fire. _Dad_.

He tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t let him get the breath needed for the exertion. He started to cough, exacerbating the pain. It felt like a weight was pressing down on his chest, compounding his misery. He realised it was a hand, fingers spread wide to hold him in place.

“Dean. Dean, _stop_.”

His eyes felt burned too and at first he thought the blurred, dishevelled shape resting a hand upon his chest was their dad. _Thank God, he’s okay_. A few more blinks cleared the misconception and brought him face to face with his brother. He coughed again, his lungs irritated. 

Once he could breathe again, he raised his hands, but could only manage a single sign: _Dad?_

He told himself that his damaged eyes had it wrong; Sam’s expression didn’t – _couldn’t_ – mean what he thought it did. Sam’s eyes weren’t red-rimmed and black-shadowed like he hadn’t slept for a week. They weren’t, _they weren’t, they-_

“I’m sorry, Dean. Dad didn’t make it.”

_No, no, no, no, no._

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes so hard that he saw stars. The pressure was vaguely comforting. Somewhere in the distance Sam was still talking about their father and his injuries being too severe. Suddenly the desire to have a voice - to be able to yell _shut up, Sam,_ to stop the flow of information in the vain hope that it wasn’t true - was overwhelming. 

But he wasn’t going to get a voice any more than what Sam was saying wasn’t going to be the truth, no matter how hard he wished or how desperately he begged. 

He was useless as a son and as a brother. He’d failed their family and their dad was dead. Sam would be better off without him, only... his heart stuttered at the memory of their dad, grabbing the front of his jacket to hold him close while he delivered the news that would change everything.

_You need to look after Sammy, Dean. I know you’ve been doing that all your life, but there’s a reason I need to tell you--_

“Dean?”

He opened his eyes to see Sam studying him worriedly. “You need me to get you anything?”

Dean shook his head, lifted his hands. _Just tired. Chest hurts._

Sam nodded, but didn’t look any less worried. “Okay. Get some rest. I’ll be downstairs with Missouri and the others.”

Dean was about to sign _wait_ , but something stopped him. He needed the space to think about everything their dad had told him, so reluctantly he nodded his assent. Sam left, and Dean flopped back against the pillow and closed his eyes.

_Dean. We found files here. Croatoan... Croatoan was a chemical weapon the military were designing, but it was released by accident. But there was a test group... Babies... all born on May second, nineteen eighty three._

He could remember the sickening lurch in his stomach, that despite the fire and the chaos raining down around them, everything had ceased to matter except that what John was telling him. _Not Sammy,_ his brain continued in an infinite loop.

_These babies will be immune to Croatoan... but if they come into contact with the virus, they’ll become something else... a weapon, a human A-bomb._

He could picture his father’s face at this point, devastation etched into his features despite the pain. The world was quite literally falling down around them and yet all of it faded out with his father’s next words.

_You need to keep Sammy safe, Dean._

_I will_ , he’d signed emphatically. 

_No, Dean, you need to listen. You need to keep him safe, because if you don’t... you might have to kill him._

OoOoO

Sam went downstairs where he could hear the murmur of voices from the kitchen. He headed in there to find Missouri sitting with Daniel Elkins and Bobby Singer. They all looked up as he entered, but Missouri was the only one to stand and approach him.

“How’s your brother doing?” she asked, touching him on the arm gently.

“I’ve told him about Dad,” he said, like that should tell them everything. Missouri nodded – clearly it did.

“And how are you, honey?”

He shrugged and offered her a sad smile. “I’m okay, I guess. I don’t think it’s sunk in yet. Dad kept going missing and whenever he’d been gone a while we’d start to assume the worst, but now it’s actually happened...”

The touch on his arm became a squeeze.

“You boys can stay here as long as you need.”

He glanced past Missouri. Bobby nodded. 

He was immediately reminded of Ellen Harvelle, who had been similarly generous and hospitable towards them. He felt _safe_ with these people, and the exhausted, devastated part of him just wanted to stop moving for a while. Maybe here, they’d be able to make sense of what their father had lost his life for.

“Thank you,” he replied, looking at Missouri again. The sound of coughing could be heard from upstairs and they both turned to glance in that direction.

“He’ll be okay,” Missouri said. “With time.”

He nodded, now certain she didn’t just mean physically, and could only pray she was right.

Like a mother hen, Missouri insisted that he sit and eat while Dean rested. Daniel and Bobby were gone by this point – they may have said to where, but he couldn’t remember. He accepted the food Missouri put in front of him, certain it was good, but his mind refused to acknowledge the taste. He ate mechanically and methodically until it was gone. 

So far, Bobby had said very little about what had happened at Fort Gillem prior to he and Dean showing up and the curiosity was bugging him. Dean would certainly want to hear this too, but, first and foremost, he needed rest so Sam left him where he was while he went to find Bobby Singer.

A quick search of the house later and he found Bobby surrounded by books and files in what had been someone’s living room. He briefly wondered if the house had some connection with any of the people currently occupying it or whether the faces in the framed photographs were staring at complete strangers.

“Hey, Bobby. Can I speak to you for a minute?”

The older man looked up from the papers on his lap and nodded, his gaze scrutinizing from under the peak of his cap.

“Sure. Come and sit down.”

He sat down opposite the hunter and considered the many issues racing through his mind.

“I just wanna know, you and my dad – did you find anything out at Fort Gillem? There must have been something there,” he ducked his head and paused for a moment. “Something worth killing for.”

Bobby dragged a hand through his beard. 

“We found files about Croatoan – how it was created by the military to be a stealth weapon, but it got released by accident.”

Sam listened with mounting horror as Bobby explained what they’d discovered about the virus and then about the test group who would serve an entirely different purpose.

“We figured there’d be files too about _who_ they selected for the test group, but we didn’t find them. We decided to split up, then the next thing I knew, the place was on fire and I found you.”

“So you don’t know who shot my dad?”

Bobby shook his head. “I’m sorry, son. I didn’t see who it was, but I sure as hell want to find out. Your dad... he was a good man.”

Sam nodded, not trusting himself to reply. He loved his father and would grieve his loss, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t harbour any anger towards the man. How they’d been raised, all the time John had spent running off in search of answers – had it honestly been worth it, given he had two sons who were pretty fucked up by anyone’s standards?

“Yeah, well I know Dean won’t rest either, so if you find anything out-”

“I’ll let you know,” Bobby finished. “You have my word.”

“Okay. Well, maybe my dad said something to Dean before he died.”

“How’s he doing?” Bobby asked, jerking his head in the direction of the stairs.

“I dunno. Dean tends to keep things pretty close to his chest, even from me.” It sounded bitter, even to his own ears.

Bobby’s expression softened. “He’s just trying to protect you, son.”

“Yeah I know, so people keep saying,” Sam said wearily. He stood up. “I’d better go and check on him.”

OoOoO

“Dean? What the hell are you doing?” Sam asked as he entered the bedroom to find his brother was no longer in bed.

Dean pulled his t-shirt on, the action causing a coughing fit that took almost a full minute to subside. Sam waited, worry and irritation re-grouping in equal measures. Irritation began to win out when Dean ignored him to start lacing up his boots.

“Dean?”

_Getting ready_ , Dean signed with the briefest of eye contact. _We need to get out of here._

“What? _Why?_ ”

Dean was pale and shaky-looking. Sam doubted he should even be _vertical_ , let alone planning to leave.

“ _Dean!_ ” 

Finally, Dean met his gaze. He didn’t look in any fit state for an argument, but they were apparently hurtling headlong into one, no matter the health of the participants involved.

“Dean. We’re okay to stay here, you _shouldn’t_ be going anywhere, fuck, we haven’t even got anywhere we need to _be_ , so what’s the rush?”

_We need to go._

Sam took a breath. Dean could be a stubborn fucker at the best of times, but this just made no sense and he wasn’t going to agree to anything unless Dean gave his reasons. Something suddenly occurred to him.

“Back at the fort...” he said, his mind suddenly darting down previously unnoticed avenues. “Did Dad say something to you?”

Dean flinched - maybe it was the reference to their father - but then shook his head.

“Did he tell you who ambushed them? _Dean_ , if you know then you need to tell me.”

_No, I told you he didn’t tell me anything, but we don’t know these people._

He rolled his eyes, but Dean continued to sign before he could offer a counter-argument.

_Someone got the jump on Dad. It’s not safe to stay around here._

Okay, that part made sense, but it didn’t take into account the fact that Dean was hurt. Rushing off to spend hour upon hour in a car, sleeping _godknowswhere_ , eating _godknowswhat_ surely wasn’t the best way to recover. He needed to find a compromise.

“Okay, fine. Let’s go back to the roadhouse.”

_We’re fine on our own._

“I know we are, Dean, but that doesn’t mean we _have_ to be!”

He held his nerve and his gaze and eventually Dean rolled his eyes and signed a weary reply.

_Fine. We’ll go to the roadhouse._

He left Dean to finish dressing. When he went and told Missouri they were leaving she didn’t seem surprised. Before Dean could come downstairs, she grasped his hand.

“I know you’ve got a lot of emotions going on right now, but don’t be angry with your brother.”

He flashed a quick smile, knowing it wouldn’t fool anyone, least of all Missouri. The sound of booted feet could be heard on the stairs, accompanied by a hacking cough. They watched Dean’s arrival, his complexion pallid, expression fixed in a grimace.

Missouri smiled warmly, like the tension was a figment of the imagination.

“Right, boys. I won’t hear of you leaving without some of my supplies.” She winked at Dean. “You like pie, don’t you?”

OoOoO

They left that afternoon. Bobby had also expressed his surprise that they were moving on so quickly, but told them he would see them soon as he was also heading for the roadhouse in the next few days.

Dean drove, with a healthy supply of Zeppelin to render conversation impossible. The open road gave him thinking time – everything their dad had said, everything he might have to do. He hated lying to Sam – they were all each other had, after all – but he needed to protect Sam from knowing what he was or what he might be capable of.

Two hunters, John had said. Gordon Walker and another guy called Kubrick – he didn’t know his first name. _They’ve seen the files, Dean. They know what Sammy is. They’re going to try and kill him._

John had given him physical descriptions of the two men, putting him on high alert whenever they passed people. He hoped Sam wouldn’t notice that they were heading north rather than north-west, but his brother was no slouch when it came to geography and quickly called him out on it.

_Thought we’d make a few stops first_ , he responded, wondering how pissed Sam would be when he discovered that he had no intention of heading for the roadhouse. They needed to keep moving, Sam’s wishes be damned. 

Over the next few days they made some stops in Ohio. He felt better with each passing day as his irritated lungs healed. It was clear Sam was becoming increasingly irritated by this pointless meandering so he decided to throw his brother a bone and they started heading west. He wanted to stop in Des Moines anyway. Their largest cache of weapons was stashed in the city and he knew he’d felt better with a little more firepower if there were people after them.

They drove to within a few blocks of their stash and hid the car. The city was better populated than most as a survivor colony had developed there in the early days, so it wasn’t uncommon to see people going about their daily business. Croats were always a risk, but so many years after the virus, the population had stabilized. 

It was a given that Dean disliked the more populated places, but he was so jumpy Sam asked him several times if he was okay, while giving him strange sidelong glances.

They’d been walking for five minutes when he realised that they were being followed - two men, whom they'd now seen twice, was enough to prick his sense of unease. A quick glance at Sam told him that he’d seen them too. He thought of their father and knew he needed to get Sam away.

_Come on_ , he signed and then started to run. For an instant Sam looked surprised, but he still ran. They were heading for the car, but taking an indirect route in attempt to lose whoever was giving chase. The feeling of being pursued didn’t go away however, so he decided to take a different tack. He ducked down an alleyway and stopped, Sam almost barrelling into him. 

“Dean? What the hell’s going on?”

Keeping his eyes on the mouth of the alley and breathing heavily, he signed quickly: _Meet where we agreed. Fifteen minutes._

He heard Sam’s growl of exasperation when there was no explanation. He knew an argument would come next, but there just wasn’t time to have it.

_Go, go, go!_

They briefly made eye contact. Whatever Sam saw in his face was enough to convince his brother to do as he asked and he ran, not a moment too soon. When their pursuer rounded the corner, he skidded to a halt, his expression indicating his confusion that his prey had disappeared.

Dean levelled his gun at Gordon.

“Where’s Sammy, Dean?” Gordon asked, evidently not deterred by the weapon in his face.

Dean smirked and huffed a laugh.

Gordon shrugged. “No matter if he got away this time. We’ve got something that’ll make _him_ come to _us_ – you.”

Too late, Dean realised that there was someone to his left – a someone who hit him hard with something that was solid enough to send him tumbling into the blackness.

OoOoO

His return to consciousness began with an awareness of voices. His head was too fuzzy to get a handle on what they were saying, but he tried to track the voices anyway, in the hope that it would encourage all his other senses to come back online.

When he heard them say ‘Sam’, it was like being woken up with a taser. He tried to move, but found his wrists and ankles were bound to the chair he was seated in. 

“Hey, looks like someone’s ready to join us.”

A face swam into view – _Kubrick_ , his brain helpfully supplied, followed by Gordon Walker’s ugly mug a moment later.

“Welcome back, Dean,” Gordon said in his deceptively gentle voice. “We need to have a chat with you about little Sammy. But you know that, right?”

Dean blinked, wishing he could clear his headache as easily as his vision. He stared at Gordon, who laughed and shook his head.

“Trust me, Dean. You’re gonna tell us _everything_ we want to know.”

Dean studied the two men, who were evidently pleased with themselves. _They don’t know I’m mute,_ he thought to himself. _They actually think that they can make me talk._

Gordon frowned. “I don’t know why you’re grinning, Dean, because things are going to get very unpleasant for you if you don’t talk.

_Good luck with that, asshole._

To be fair, several hours later he didn’t feel a lot like grinning, but he figured being repeatedly pummelled by two idiots - who _still_ hadn’t worked out that no amount of physical punishment was going to get them what they wanted - would put a dent anyone’s mood. 

Kubrick looked increasingly close to losing his shit, but Gordon appeared unflappable, which definitely made him the scarier of the two, even if he wasn’t any smarter. Kubrick also seemed to be looking at him like he was some kind of super-human because he hadn’t broken and talked yet.

“What do we do now?” Kubrick asked his partner, his face shiny with perspiration. He flexed his fingers, irritated that his knuckles were now bruised and split and he had nothing to show for it.

Gordon shrugged, a half-smile on his lips. “Same plan as before. We get the word out about where we’re holding Dean and Sam will come right to us.”

“I’ll go,” Kubrick replied, shooting a last murderous glare at their captive. “Then I wanna be the one who puts a bullet in _him_.”

“Here,” Gordon said. Dean flinched slightly as the other man swooped in suddenly to grasp the amulet hanging around his neck. The cord snapped as Gordon pulled it sharply downwards. “Take this. I’m sure Sam will want some kind of proof that we’ve got his brother.” 

Kubrick left, banging the door shut behind him. Gordon huffed a soft laugh and shook his head before turning his attention back to Dean.

“Well played,” he said as he walked over and began rummaging in a backpack. “I’ve gotta say, I’m impressed; I mean, we’d heard bits of stories, here and there. John Winchester’s boys, trained to fight from the moment they were out of diapers.” He crouched down in front of Dean, smile still in place.

“You’re a tough one, Dean, and you’re loyal to your family and I _respect_ that, but ultimately it’s not going to be enough to save your brother. We read the files, we _know_ what he is, but you do too, don’t you? These... _special children_... He could be the key to a cure or he could be the thing that ends the rest of us. Either way we need to do something about him. Imagine if he’s the cure, Dean. Don’t you want to save humanity, or what’s left of it?” Gordon paused, looking thoughtful for a moment.

“Let’s say, back before the virus happened, you had a chance to meet, I dunno, Mahatma Gandhi or, or Martin Luther King. You knew what good they’d do for humanity in their time, but you also knew that killing them before they could do all that work would stop the Croatoan virus years later. You’d take them out like _that_.” - Dean blinked as Gordon snapped his fingers in his face – “Am I right?

“Thing is, I _don’t_ believe that he’s the cure. I think he’s a danger and I’m not prepared to take the risk.” Gordon shrugged. “A cure’s pointless anyway – what’s the expression? Closing the stable door after the horse has bolted? So we’ve gotta put him down, him and the other special children. And hey, I get why you can’t do it – he’s your brother and you’re all each other’s got, but it’s gotta be done, Dean and you know it.”

Gordon stood quickly and moved behind him. He flinched as Gordon patted him on the shoulder. “Now Sammy’s going to be on his way here soon – if he’s not already. So we’ve got to be ready for him.”

His head snapped back violently as Gordon pulled a rolled up bandana between his lips and tied it tightly at the back of his neck. He would have laughed at the irony, but then Gordon appeared in his line of sight again, this time brandishing a shotgun and a lethal-looking blade.

All humour gone, Dean just stared at him.

“Sorry, Dean,” Gordon said, not particularly sounding like he meant it. “I’ll try to make it quick.”

OoOoO

When Dean hadn’t arrived at their meeting place, Sam instantly had a bad feeling about what had happened to him. Like Dean, some survivors didn’t relish the prospect of meeting others like them, when certain resources could be scarce, but this felt different – this wasn’t being chased off someone’s turf or a fight over some precious find. This felt personal, and the strangest thing of all was that Dean’s face had said it wasn’t news to him.

“Goddamnit, Dean,” he growled, running his hands through his hair in frustration. “Where the hell are you?”

He was torn – he wanted to go look for Dean, but if Dean did make it here and he was gone... 

Another half an hour passed and he couldn’t stand it any longer. He checked his weapons, grabbed a backpack filled with other equipment he might need, and headed out. On the streets he moved with caution. If someone was after them, he didn’t want to advertise his presence. With no real idea where to begin, he decided to return to where they’d parted company, when Dean had told him to run. 

He took a circuitous route, scaling walls and climbing fences. From a vantage point above the street he observed the alley for a full ten minutes before he decided it was safe to take a closer look. Dropping down into the street, he headed for where he’d last seen his brother. His eyes scanned the ground looking for anything that might tell him what had happened to Dean. When he found the blood, his heart stuttered. _Please don’t be Dean’s_.

He was preoccupied with this thought when he realised that someone was approaching. Quickly he ducked behind a rusting dumpster to watch as a kid, who looked no older than about eleven or twelve, sauntered into the alley. He figured the kid was just passing through so he may as well stay hidden until he was gone, but the boy stopped close to where he was hiding and started looking around. Evidently he noticed the blood too. Sam watched as the kid leaned in to examine it, the action causing something he was wearing around his neck to swing loose.

Dean’s amulet.

He was out of his hiding place, gun drawn, before the kid could straighten up again.

“Hey,” he growled, praying the kid didn’t take off running so he didn’t have to shoot him. “You’re gonna tell me where you got that necklace and you’re gonna tell me _now._ ”

The kid suddenly lost about five years as his eyes widened in fear. Sam felt a flicker of guilt, but not enough to lower his gun, because this kid was the only clue he had to finding Dean.

“I, I, uh, some guy gave it to me – said if I put it on and came and waited in this alley, he’d make it worth my time.”

“Yeah? What did he look like?”

The kid’s description – _old, craggy face, dirty blond hair_ – told Sam it was one of the guys that had been watching them earlier. He knew Dean had seen them too. He turned his attention outwards again, to the kid who was evidently still expecting to get beaten up.

“This guy say anything else?”

The kid shifted but didn’t attempt to run.

“Just that if anyone asked me where I got this thing, I was to give them the location.”

_It’s a message,_ Sam thought, _which almost certainly means it’s a trap._

He went anyway.

OoOoO

Dean hated being so helpless. He’d gotten out of scrapes before, but Gordon had been thorough while he’d been unconscious and all his hidden tools were gone. Struggling had only succeeded in rubbing his wrists and ankles raw, and the cloth between his lips was soaked in his saliva. His mind raced, looking for any possible solution to get him out of here, or to at least be able to warn Sam, but he was coming up blank.

The only thing that kept him from actually panicking was the fact that Sam was the one person he’d want to back him in a fight. Despite his brother’s preference for talking it out, Sam was a tough fucker and wouldn’t pull any punches, least he hoped he wouldn’t. 

He glared at Gordon’s back as the other man made his preparations. How could anyone think that killing Sam would solve anything? He wished his dad was here, even though John would almost certainly kick his ass for letting Gordon Walker get the drop on him. 

“Okay, we’re all ready,” Gordon said, like Dean was somehow complicit in this plan. “I’m gonna expect him coming in the back, but if he thinks otherwise, there’ll be a few little surprises waiting for him.

Eyes promising murder, Dean bared his teeth around the gag. 

“Come now, Dean,” Gordon said. “It’s got to be this way.”

The voice that existed only in his head yelled a stream of curses and threats as Gordon turned and walked away. 

OoOoO

Sam found the place the kid had told him about. The building had been a hotel at one time and there were no signs that anyone had tried to board it up, so it was practically derelict. Most of the windows were smashed and there was no sign that anyone was in there, but Sam didn’t doubt the kid’s information. Dean’s amulet was carefully stashed in his pocket. He fingered the cord unconsciously as he studied the building for a few more minutes.

Next he went to check out the back. Like the front, there were plenty of entry points for him, but given that he already knew this was a trap, he wasn’t about to make it easy for the assholes who had his brother.

Chances were they’d know he wouldn’t just walk in the front way so the back was probably covered too. He had no idea how many he might be up against – they’d seen two guys, but there was nothing to say there wouldn’t be more. So with the front and the back out – the next option was up.

He circled back around and went across the street. The buildings on this side were a couple of stories taller, giving him a view of the roof of the building he needed to get into. Gaining access was easy, and he managed to get up to the roof without killing himself on the stairs that were little more than rotting death traps. 

Keeping cover, he surveyed the roofline across the street. The building to the right looked as if someone had tried to blow it up at some point, so getting onto that roof might prove difficult. The building to the left definitely looked like a better prospect. As his gaze returned to his target, he thought he caught a movement on one of the upper floors. Someone was definitely in there. He pulled out the army issue binoculars, but the interior of the building was too dark to make anything out properly.

All the while he could hear his father’s voice. _Don’t make your move until you’ve weighed up every option. Most mistakes are avoidable – you don’t need a Plan B if you’ve researched your Plan A properly._

He left his vantage point via a fire escape at the back, not wanting to risk being seen on the street again. Decision made, he hurried to the neighboring building and slipped inside. Fortunately, there was enough natural daylight that he didn’t need his flashlight. He made his way up to the roof, pausing every so often to check that he was still alone.

The temperature was dropping and as he stepped out onto the roof, his breath started to mist in front of him. He did a final check, then pulled his hair back from his face and secured it with a band. _Business mode_ , Dean always called it and he refused to believe that he wouldn’t see his brother’s smirking face when he made disparaging comments about his hair ever again.

With the buildings butted up to each other, it was a simple matter of hurdling a low wall to get onto the roof he wanted. Avoiding the bird shit and other detritus, he considered his options once again. Ahead was the door that would take him into the building. That was obviously the logical option, but once again, he could hear his father’s voice: _If you’ve thought of it, chances are they will too._

From his initial reconnaissance, he knew that the windows were arranged at regular intervals across the building’s facade – four per floor, front and back. He’d definitely seen movement on the floor second from top. Presumably whoever was holding Dean had figured whether he chose front or back, he’d have to come in from the ground floor, so they would have plenty of opportunity to hear him coming. The obvious answer was to come from the top – just not through a door.

Decision made, he set his backpack down and set about finding the things he needed to make the short climb to the first set of windows. His next job was then to find a suitable anchor point, a decision he had to consider carefully given the age and condition of the building. He settled on a large air conditioning unit that appeared securely bolted into the floor. Its position in the corner was good, as it would allow him to scale down the building out of view of any of the windows.

Satisfied that both he and the anchor point were securely joined, he climbed onto the perimeter wall and looked over the edge. There was no one on the street below so he swung his legs over the parapet and prepared to climb down. 

His height meant that he quickly found footing on a lintel. Ensuring that he wouldn’t then drop down in view of the window, he climbed carefully, to the left of the first casement window. Once in position, he listened for a moment, but aside from the breeze and the creak of the climbing rope as he moved, there was no sign of life from within the building. Through the window he could see the access door from the roof. He squinted.

“Motherfucker...” he muttered to himself as his eyes confirmed the tripwire across the doorway. Evidently he was expected.

This window was still intact, cementing his decision to climb down another floor rather than try to gain access here. He carefully let out the rope until he reached the next lintel. His feet came to rest on it and he prepared to lean in to look in the window. Heart pounding, he gripped the frame, just as the lintel gave way beneath him. The rope saved him but there was a crash as the chunks of concrete hit the ground many feet below. 

OoOoO

“You hear that?” Gordon said, turning to Dean as they heard the noise outside. “Sounds like the cavalry has arrived.”

He smiled and checked his shotgun. In the chair, Dean struggled against the ropes holding him in place, shaking his head furiously as if he could dislodge the gag.

“Sorry to leave you on your own, Dean but I better go and act as the welcoming committee for your brother. Hopefully he’ll be a little more talkative than you.”

Gordon then turned and walked away.

“Come on up, Sammy,” he sing-songed as he headed down the stairs to greet their visitor. 

Dean watched him leave and said a silent prayer that Sam was armed and dangerous... and would give Gordon Walker’s ass the kicking it deserved.

OoOoO

Having regained his balance and waited a beat to see what the crashing block would do, Sam decided to risk looking in the window. The glass was smashed so he could hear better – a fact that proved enormously beneficial when the sounds of footsteps could be heard. The door was open in the room he could see into and as the footsteps grew louder he saw a shadow. He quickly pulled back, but the shadow didn’t stop and the noise then faded away as the footsteps continued down the stairs. Seeing an opportunity, he climbed in the window and released his rope.

Gun in hand, he contemplated what to do next. He still didn’t know how many people he might be up against, didn’t know whether he’d be better going up or down. He decided to wait. Presumably whoever had gone down, would come back up when they realised that there was no one there.

Adrenaline thrummed in his veins. Minutes passed. He found a good vantage point so there was nothing to do but wait. He thought of Dean and prayed he was he was here, alive and well. The dilapidated building creaked and groaned, and through the haze of hyper-alertness, it was hard to separate out these noises from ones that might mean something. 

Then the distinctive sound of returning footsteps reached his ears. He adjusted the grip on his gun and prepared to strike. When the man jogged into view, he sprung from his hiding place and whacked him hard with the butt of his weapon. The guy fell forward, dropping his gun which went off when it hit the floor. Sam was on him in an instant, all long limbs and muscle and _fury_.

OoOoO

The gunshot from the floor below rang through the building. Dean stilled as he heard it, his rage at his powerlessness re-kindling at the thought that Sam had met his end here. His wrists were bleeding, for all the good his struggling had done and he groaned impotently through the gag as his head dropped and his eyes closed. 

_Goddamnit, Sam. Please be okay._

OoOoO 

Getting the jump on the other guy had given him an advantage, but the fight was far from easiest one he’d ever had. His assailant fought like a demon and they both landed punches that connected with varying damage. He had the guy pinned beneath him, but was unseated by a left hook to his mouth. Sam spat blood as the other man rolled away from him, breathing hard. Sam wasn’t about to let him recover any, not with Dean still missing. He launched himself forward, slamming into him and causing skull to meet concrete with a sickening thud.

“Where _is_ he?” he snarled, shaking the guy, who looked on the verge of losing consciousness. He came to when Sam shook him again, his lips spreading into a bloody grin.

“You’re too late. He’s probably dead by now.”

Shaken, but not prepared to show it, Sam dragged him up until they were almost nose to nose.

“I’ll ask you again. Where. Is. He?”

“What’s the matter, Sam?” the guy said, his eyes rolling slightly in his head. “Are you lost without your attack dog? I can understand why your daddy trained Dean this way; he must have known that people would come after you eventually.”

He frowned. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

The man laughed, causing Sam to flinch back from the spray of blood that burst from between his lips.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know, Sammy. You’re one of the special children – immune to Croatoan, _designed_ to bring death and destruction to those that remain? Your daddy knew, Dean knows, so you expect me to believe that you don’t?”

“I don’t give a shit what you believe,” he growled. “I just want to know where my brother is.”

The man continued like he’d never spoken. “Poor Dean... he’d be better off dead, you know. What he’ll have to do to you, stop you going nuclear... Hell, that’ll kill him anyway.”

Rage taking hold, Sam punched him hard, over and over until it was obvious that the guy was dead. He stared at the body for a moment, unconsciously trying to shake off the numbness in his hand. A noise from the room ahead caught his attention and he tensed, ready to fight if need be. Weapon raised, he edged to the door, stopped, and listened again.

The noise started up again, a scuffling sound of wood on concrete, followed by a grunt. It was a frustrated sound of exertion and Sam’s heart rate quickened as something within him recognised the one who made it. He mentally counted to three and then kicked the door as hard as he could, wincing slightly at how easily it broke apart. It was forgotten in an instant.

“Dean!”

Tied to a chair, looking battered and bruised, but most definitely alive was his brother. He was struggling against the ropes, creating the scuffling noise Sam had heard from the other room. His expression was furious and despite the surging relief at seeing Dean alive, Sam still had a moment to appreciate the irony that they’d bothered to gag him as well as tie him up.

Blood had dried in Dean’s hair and run down the side of his face, which itself was a rainbow of bruises, but otherwise – mercifully - he didn’t appear to have any serious injuries. Sam quickly scanned the room for any further assailants and with none to be found, he moved forward to set about freeing his brother.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer until his brother’s hands were freed.

His knife made quick work of the bindings at Dean’s wrists and ankles. Dean, being Dean, ignored the question as his eyes flicked up and down, looking for signs of injury. The cloth they’d used to gag Dean was tied tightly and it took a moment for Sam to work the knot loose.

_You okay?_ Dean signed, standing quickly, the movements like fire from an automatic weapon. 

“I’m fine, honestly,” Sam replied, self-consciously wiping the blood from his split lip. “And I asked first. Are _you_ okay?”

Dean nodded, still a little wild-eyed. _Yeah, I’m good_. He stopped and grinned suddenly. _They were pissed because I wouldn’t answer any of their questions._

“I guess they didn’t figure out why that was?” Sam laughed, eyeing the saliva-soaked bandanna in his hand distastefully before he tossed it to the floor.

_Yeah, they picked the wrong guy if they were looking for someone to make small talk with, huh?_

“They sure did,” Sam replied, slinging an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They’d only walked a couple of steps when Dean hesitated.

_What happened to..._

“Dead,” he replied flatly.

Dean nodded. 

_What about the other one?_

Good point. He realised he’d never seen the guy with the dirty blond hair since they’d first noticed that they were being followed.

“Here,” he said, passing Dean his handgun. “I haven’t seen him at all, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

Dean nodded. A quick search of the backpack in the room netted Dean all his own weapons before they headed out. Sam was happy to avoid the corpse in the hallway, but evidently Dean wanted to be sure there was no further threat as he shoved the body over with his foot and studied it carefully.

Satisfied, Dean then canted his head towards the stairs, the motion communicating _let’s go_. Dean then started down the stairs, weapon drawn.

As the adrenaline started to ebb away, his elation at finding Dean was replaced by something he couldn’t readily identify. What the guy had said about special children and Croatoan... and him. _Dean knows,_ the guy had said.

_You coming?_ Dean reappeared, his expression reflecting his impatience. _The other guy could be coming back._

“Yeah,” Sam replied, making after his brother quickly. They needed to talk, but for now, it’d have to wait.


	3. Chapter 3

They left Des Moines immediately. Dean drove like a demon, refusing Sam’s requests to take care of his various injuries until they’d put a decent number of miles between themselves and the city. The distance and Sam’s insistence won Dean over eventually and they pulled over at the side of the road in the middle of nowheresville. Sam went to fetch the first aid kit from the trunk while Dean stretched his legs. Sam wasn’t sure why he needed to do that _armed_ , but figured there was no point in asking him.

“Here.” He gestured for Dean to come and sit. He worked for a minute or so before he decided to fill the silence.

“Dean? You know the guy that took you? Before I killed him, he was saying some really weird stuff about Croatoan and how I might be the cure or... I dunno, something about me going nuclear?” he paused, the damp piece of cotton wool hovering just above the track of dried blood on Dean’s face.

“Does any of that make any sense to you?”

Dean frowned and looked up at him. _No._

“I mean, I spoke to Bobby Singer and he said he and Dad had found files at Fort Gillem that confirmed what they always thought about the virus being created as a weapon. He said there _was_ a test group, but they didn’t find any information about who was in that group so I don’t know why any of that would apply to me – hell, I probably wasn’t even born when it was developed.

“So, yeah... why would that guy say I was one of the, uh, what did he call them? _Special children,_ that was it. I just don’t get it.”

Dean rolled his eyes. _Newsflash, Sam. People lie._

“He said _you_ knew as well.”

_Yeah? This is the first I’ve heard._ When Sam didn’t look convinced, he continued. _Dad was dying and the fort was blowing up around us. Trust me, there was no time for fairy stories._

After a long moment, Sam nodded then went back to work in silence, cleaning off the dried blood and applying ointment to the wounds. The worst was the one where Dean had been hit over the head, but it wasn’t serious enough to need stitches. 

“You’ll live,” Sam pronounced as he finished up.

_Let’s get going,_ Dean signed with only the briefest of eye contact as he stood and made his way back to the driver’s side of the car.

“You’re welcome,” Sam replied dryly, staring at his brother’s back.

That night they bunked down in a farmhouse somewhere in Bumfuck, Iowa. There was a comfortable, if musty, twin bedroom that they bedded down in for the night, but Sam was pretty certain that Dean didn’t sleep at all. He offered to drive the following morning, certain that Dean would say yes so he could at least rest his eyes in the car, but the response was an emphatic _no_.

Dean then drove them to Omaha to pick up some of the ethanol they’d stashed. They’d barely reached the city limits when he started to wish they hadn’t come – maybe it was coming back to somewhere more populated, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to go wrong, that feeling increasing as they left the safety of the car behind. Feeling on edge, it only took one more ‘when we get to the roadhouse’ comment from his brother to cause him to snap.

_We’re not going to the fucking roadhouse, okay?_

The signs were delivered so furiously they were effectively yelled. Sam stopped walking.

“Dean? What the fuck?”

_We’re not going to the roadhouse. The more we’re with people, the greater the risk. How’d those two assholes find us, huh? Someone told them. Someone from your precious roadhouse, maybe?_

Sam shook his head, his frustration growing with every passing second.

“There’ll be more than one roadhouse, Dean. Dad had his connections – those guys would have too. Anyway, what risk are you talking about?”

_Yeah? Maybe you just don’t want to admit that someone ratted us out,_ Dean replied, ignoring Sam’s question.

“Jesus! Why’d you see the worst in everyone, Dean? Not everyone’s out to get us, you know.”

_Dad-_

“No!” he snapped, cutting off whatever Dean was going to sign next. “Dad’s _dead_ and you _still_ act like he’s here giving the orders. Don’t you see, Dean? I wish Dad was still alive as much as you do, but he’s not, and that means we can live our lives any way we want.

“But you _don’t_ want, do you? Why can’t you just admit that it’s _you_ , Dean? _You_ can’t cope being around other people, so you pretend we need to avoid everyone, so you don’t have to face up to your problems. I mean, you’re fucking _mute_ for Christ sake!”

Dean was just watching him now, apparently stricken by the flow of angry words and home truths. Even in the midst of his fury he could tell how much this was hurting his brother, but stopping didn’t seem like an option either.

“You’ve got a voice, but you _can’t_ use it. D’you realise how fucked up that is? I’m your _brother_ and we’ve spent every single day of our lives together and I’ve never heard you speak. This is no life, Dean – for either of us - but you’re too fucking stubborn to see it.”

He shook his head wearily. 

“Go get your precious fucking ethanol. I’ll meet you back at the car.”

He turned and walked away, too angry to look back to see if Dean wanted to respond to any of the accusations he’d made. Dean whistled – the one to get his attention - but he ignored it and walked faster. He had no idea where he was going, but he just needed to be alone for a while. He almost laughed at the irony. Dean was the one who coveted ‘alone’, after all. 

With each footstep his anger diminished and his shame flourished. Dean hadn’t wanted this life any more than he had. It wasn’t Dean’s fault that their dad had raised them the way he had. It wasn’t Dean’s fault that he was mute. He thought about what Missouri had said before they’d set off for Fort Gillem. _All I know is that you need to be there for him, even if you don’t always agree with his decisions._ Maybe this was what she’d meant. He decided to turn back and apologise because yeah, he’d said some pretty shitty things.

“Hiya, Sam.”

He spun at the voice, realising to his horror that he wasn’t armed. He came face to face with the speaker a split second before the other man plunged a knife into his stomach, the blade driving deep through skin and muscle. The pain was instantaneous when the knife was pulled free and yet Sam was still able to register the dirty blond hair and craggy face. _That’s the guy that had Dean’s amulet,_ he thought, _and now he’s going to kill me._ If his assailant had more, then he was going to be able to accomplish it with ease as all Sam could do at that point was put his hands to the wound and try not to pass out. 

Evidently, the guy thought he’d done enough damage - or maybe he’d figured that where there was Sam, there must be Dean – and he turned and ran. Sam looked around and, seeing a bench, headed for it and sat down heavily. He knew shock was setting in, taking the edge off the pain and leaving him lightheaded and delirious as he studied the blood flowing from between his fingers. He figured he’d just sit here and wait for the shock to pass before he did something about the wound...

OoOoO

Fucking Sam.

When their dad had been alive, Sam had always been the one who’d pushed – the one who’d wanted more, wanted to know why – wanted to know _why not_. He’d spent his life mediating between the two of them. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a strong personality too; it was just that there didn’t seem any point to the endless butting of heads that passed as normal for their family.

Sam’s words had cut him deep. It wasn’t like he _wanted_ the feelings of anxiety when they were around others and he was pretty certain that no one would _choose_ to be mute. He didn’t think he’d ever get Sam to understand though. Sam had a natural affinity with people, seeing the best in them and ignoring the possibility of danger. How the hell could he keep Sam safe if his brother insisted on making connections with people he barely knew?

He realised Sam was no longer in view – hadn’t been for several minutes now. They needed to talk and it was stupid for them to be fighting here, especially if there were others still after them. He started to walk in the direction Sam had stormed off in, until the sound of running footsteps could be heard. They were growing louder, indicating that whoever it was, they were coming this way. He hoped it was Sam, even though the running probably meant there was trouble. He stepped out of view, just in case.

He realised quickly that the man running in his direction was Gordon Walker’s partner-in-crime. Kubrick hadn’t seen him yet, so the guy had no clue what trouble he was heading for. Dean readied himself to pounce – and froze.

Kubrick was carrying a bloodied knife and although he didn’t look injured, there was blood spattered on the front of his shirt. 

Once Kubrick was within ten feet, he stepped out of his hiding place, gun drawn. Kubrick almost fell over as he attempted to stop, his expression registering his shock and – yes – fear, at coming face to face with the man he couldn’t break. Dean wanted to demand that the bastard tell him where Sam was, because it was too much of a coincidence that he was here and covered in blood, but Kubrick couldn’t exactly read his mind.

“Looking for your brother?” Kubrick said, somewhat regaining his composure. He grinned, although it was still slightly forced.

Okay, maybe the asshole _could_ read his mind.

“You know, if you wanted to stay off the radar, you really shouldn’t drive such an obvious car. You should think about getting horses or something.”

Ignoring the gloat, he gestured with his gun that Kubrick should start walking. Kubrick raised his hands in an apparent gesture of placation, then decided to take and chance and lunged with the already bloodied knife. Dean was quicker however, and the shot he fired found its home within the other man’s brain. He started running before Kubrick’s body even hit the ground, the other man no use to him now.

The feeling of rising panic ambushed him. He felt his heart rate climbing until it became a painful staccato in his chest and his breath would only come in gasps, forcing him to stop for a moment. He glanced up, but the sun was too bright and he was certain that he was about to pass out. None of this would help him find Sam and angrily, he forced himself to calm down.

Once the lightheadedness had passed, he returned to the car and began to sort through what he’d need. Weapons were a given, since they never went anywhere without being fully armed. Hesitantly he reached for their small first aid kit, praying that he’d got it wrong – that the blood on Kubrick wasn’t his brother’s and that Sam wouldn’t need that kind of help. He then retraced his steps, past the dead body now lying in the street, and ran in the direction Kubrick had come from.

He rounded the corner, eyes scanning frantically for any sign of his brother. The buildings opened out here – an attempt at creating open space within the confines of a city. He was just about to allow himself the relief that Sam wasn’t here when he caught sight of someone sitting on a bench.

_Oh no, Sam, Sam, Sam..._

“ _Sam!_ ”

For a moment he was too stunned for coherent thought. He had no memory of his own voice – hell, he wasn’t even convinced he _had_ a voice anymore, and yet _something_ had yelled his brother’s name as he started to run. 

OoOoO

Someone called his name. 

He opened his eyes and through the haze of blood loss he realised that someone was approaching at speed. It looked like Dean.

He must have imagined the voice then.

OoOoO

Too much blood.

He skidded to a halt in front of his brother, fingers fumbling with the catches on the first aid kit before he could even set it on the ground. Cupping Sam’s face in his hands, he whistled – the one he used to get his brother’s attention. Sam’s eyes blinked open, but they were already starting to roll in his head.

_Stay with me, Sammy, don’t you dare die on me!_

He balled up some gauze to staunch the flow of blood, but trying to encourage Sam to put his hand on it was destined to fail as his brother lapsed into unconsciousness. Panic set in. Sam needed help - more than he could give him on his own. Pulling his brother into his arms he set off, knowing what he needed to do, even if he didn’t like it. 

OoOoO

Ellen heard the car long before she saw it. When there were no customers and Jo hadn’t persuaded her to play some music, it was possible to hear people approaching on foot, so the roar of an engine was like a thunderclap splitting the heavens. The speed it was approaching alerted her to trouble. She reached back to check the pistol in the waistband of her jeans. 

“What is it?” Bobby said, as he emerged from the can.

“It’s John’s boys,” she replied, not turning from the window. “Something’s wrong. Get Jo and Ash.”

She ran outside as the car skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust twenty feet from the door. The driver’s door flew open before the engine had even been killed, and Dean Winchester practically fell out, his expression a potent mix of panic and grief.

He ran to the rear door and yanked it open just as she arrived at the car and realised that she couldn’t see Sam because he was lying prone across the rear seats.

“What’s happened?” she asked.

Dean looked at her and for a moment she thought he was about to speak. His eyes cast around in desperation, then he mimed a stabbing action followed by a couple of quick signs. Ellen recognised them – could probably have guessed the meaning even if she hadn’t.

_Please help_

“Let’s get him out,” she urged, before she turned and yelled over her shoulder. “Jo! Clear the table and get out the medical supplies now!”

She stepped back to allow Dean room to remove his brother from the car. Sam’s size made the manoeuvre awkward, but Dean settled him in his arms, allowing Ellen her first glance at the unconscious man. Sam’s skin was pale and waxy looking and the padding Dean had used to staunch the blood flow was saturated as it rested on his stomach. All in all, it didn’t look good.

“Come on,” she said, leading the way into the roadhouse, where the clattering and urgent-sounding voices told her that the necessary preparations were underway.

Despite his coming here, Ellen could still see Dean’s reluctance to allow others to go near his beloved brother while he was vulnerable. He carried Sam through into the kitchen and laid him out, but his expression darkened as Bobby and Jo came close. He flinched when she laid a hand on his arm.

“Dean?” she said gently. “Let them help.”

Still apparently conflicted, his eyes moved back to Sam. Bobby was starting to cut away clothing to get to the wound, cussing to himself as he worked. Dean glanced back at Ellen and nodded sharply, once, before moving away, like he couldn’t bear to watch. Ellen watched him go, before she moved over to where her Bobby was working. She waited while he took Sam’s pulse and blood pressure.

“First thoughts?” she asked, as Jo cleaned the blood away so they could better see what they were dealing with.

Bobby blew out a long breath and readjusted his cap. Before he answered, he looked up, presumably to check Dean was out of earshot.

“My thoughts? It ain’t looking good.”

“Well, we need to save that boy,” Ellen said grimly, as she glanced over to where Dean was now pacing like an extremely agitated tiger. 

“’Cause if we don’t, we’ll be burying them both.”

OoOoO

Time passed in a blur. Bobby had everything in hand so Ellen focused on running interference so Dean didn’t hinder his efforts. Thirty minutes later, Bobby came out of the kitchen, his expression bleak. On hearing the door, Dean was over like a shot.

“How’s he doing?” Ellen asked, knowing Dean would be doing the same if he could.

“He’s still with us and we’ve patched him up...”

“But?”

Bobby sighed. “But he’s lost too much blood.” He looked at Dean directly. “I’m sorry, son, he’s hanging in there, but for how much longer... I don’t know.”

Ellen glanced over at Dean and saw devastation written across every inch of his face. She turned back to Bobby.

“Is there _nothing_ we can do?”

“There’s one option,” Bobby said, but it was clear he didn’t like it. “We could try a direct blood transfusion if your blood types are compatible.”

Dean was nodding before Bobby had even finished speaking, although whether that was to confirm that his blood could be given to Sam or just that they should try the procedure wasn’t clear.

“It’s risky – for _both_ of you,” Bobby added. “And I ain’t an expert, by any means. I’ve seen a couple done, but I’ve never actually run the show. You need to think carefully about this, son.”

Any attempt to reason Dean out of it was futile and Bobby could see that, hell, he’d known what Dean’s answer would be before he’d even opened his mouth. He sighed again. Dean evidently took this as Bobby’s agreement to perform the procedure and strode past them into the kitchen, leaving them alone. Bobby shook his head.

“I’m serious, Ellen. If I balls this up then I’m killing a perfectly healthy boy too.”

She placed her hand on his arm, knowing how conflicted he felt. “You saw his face – he needs you to try.” 

Bobby nodded. “Come on then. Let’s get things started.”

OoOoO

With Jo and Ash pitching in, they managed to arrange the furniture so that Dean could lie by his brother’s side. It was vital that Dean remained still throughout the procedure so they made him as comfortable as possible. He lay silent and grim-faced as they moved around, his eyes never leaving his gravely ill brother.

It was an old procedure that had been long since superseded by better techniques, but those techniques required equipment that they didn’t have. The idea was to join Dean’s radial artery to the median cephalic vein on the inside of Sam’s elbow and allow the blood to flow from the former to the latter using a tiny silver tube between the two to prevent clotting. Simple – on paper.

Once they were ready, Bobby explained to Dean that he would make an incision at his wrist to expose the radial artery.

“It’s gonna be a big cut, son,” he said, partly wishing he’d never mentioned the transfusion at all. “I know you ain’t gonna be bothered about a big ugly scar, but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that cutting you like this is dangerous. I get it wrong and you bleed out. You sure you want me to do it?”

He knew what the answer would be before Dean gave an emphatic nod. 

“Okay, then,” he replied. “I’ll scrub up and we’ll get this party started.”

He began with Sam. Ellen held the unconscious man’s limb as he sliced into the tender flesh of Sam’s inner arm. He wanted to tell Dean it might be a damn sight easier without his leaden gaze watching every movement he made, but he knew it’d be the equivalent of asking day not to follow night. Finding the vein, he cut and clamped it, all the while talking to himself as he worked. Once he was satisfied that that part of the procedure was complete, he turned him attention back to Dean.

“Okay, your turn, son.”

Dean met his gaze briefly before he closed his eyes and exposed his wrist. Ellen stepped around the table and gently but firmly pressed down on Dean’s hand and his arm just below his elbow. Dean’s eyes flickered open at the sudden pressure.

“It’s okay, honey,” she said to him. “Just try to relax.”

They’d positioned him the opposite way around to Sam to make the connection easier, so Bobby had to lean right over him to make the incision. He muttered a quick apology for the lack of anaesthetic, then started to cut.

It was disconcerting that Dean never made a sound, even though it was clear from his pinched expression that he was in pain. Bobby worked as quickly as he dared to find Dean’s radial artery, gently pulling it free. If he’d looked up at that point, he would have seen Ash blanching, the other man making a valiant effort to hold onto his lunch. 

“So far, so good,” he said flatly, to himself as much as anyone else in the room. With the artery clamped, he glanced up at Ellen. She gave him a quick smile of encouragement.

“Jo?” he said, without turning.

“Yeah?”

“Hand your mom those bandages so she can secure things here.”

He stood back and blew out a long breath as Ellen took the bandages and cut two lengths. She twisted them so they were more rope-like, before proceeding to tie them at different points around the two limbs lying side by side. Once they were bound together she stepped back, her eyes flicking between the two boys lying supine on her kitchen table. 

“Okay,” Bobby said – then more determined. “Okay. Time for the main act.”

Ellen had sterilised the tiny silver tube that lay in the dish, waiting to be called into action. Using tweezers, Bobby lifted it out, once again wondering why he ever thought this could work. It called for an extremely steady hand, and he could only pray he’d drunk a sufficient amount of whiskey to achieve the necessary stillness. 

“Dean? How you doing, son?” He asked the question without thinking. After a moment, Dean’s unfettered hand came up, his thumb and his first finger forming a circle. _OK_. Satisfied, Bobby flexed his hands and continued.

The next step was to thread the end of the artery through the silver tube and fold it back on itself to create a rigid end, over which the vein could be placed. Once everything was where it should be, the clamps could be removed and – hopefully – the blood would flow.

He worked in complete silence aside from his own sporadic curses. It took several attempts, but he finally got the vein in place. He didn’t start breathing again until the clamps were removed.

“What now?” Ellen asked.

He stood back and wiped a hand across his head. 

“Pray that I’ve done it right,” he replied ominously, before gesturing to the scene in front of him. “And pray that these two are strong enough.”

He’d forgotten Ash and Jo were still hovering in the background. A quick glance at each of them confirmed that he wasn’t just imagining the nervous tension he felt. He studied the two young men and tried not to imagine he was looking at two dead bodies, laid out in front of him. He looked at them side by side, their arms tied together. He thought of John, who’d raised these two boys to be everything to each other. Bound by blood, John had described them. How ironic that expression seemed now.

It was bizarre to watch – Dean’s colour gradually worsened as Sam’s gradually improved. Ellen took charge of checking Sam’s vital signs, while he took care of Dean’s. Time staggered along, no one spoke. 

Bobby finished checking Dean’s pulse for the umpteenth time. He didn’t like what he found.

“Okay, that’s enough. We don’t wanna lose him.”

He was about to move when Dean’s hand grabbed hold of his arm. Startled, he realised that Dean was looking at him and even without words he knew what the boy was trying to tell him.

“No. _No_ , Dean. You’ve done enough.”

The movement was sluggish, but Dean stubbornly shook his head. Bobby sighed.

“One more minute, and not a second more.”

OoOoO

He awoke, completely disorientated. He was in a comfortable bedroom that looked vaguely familiar, with the sunlight spilling in through the windows, but no matter how hard he tried, his mind wouldn’t focus. When he glanced around, he realised there was another bed in the room, which was also occupied.

_Sam_.

He tried to sit up, but his body felt like lead. 

“It’s okay, he’s just sleeping,” a voice said gently, and he jumped at the realisation that someone else was in the room with them. 

Ellen was sitting in a chair off to one side. She’d obviously been reading, but her book now rested in her lap and she was watching him carefully, a soft smile on her face. 

“You’re both going to be fine,” she said. “You can rest, Dean. You’re safe.”

It went against his every instinct to take someone else’s word for it, but something told him she was telling the truth. Feeling utterly exhausted, he succumbed to his body’s demands and fell back to sleep. 

OoOoO

When he awoke again, Ellen had gone but Sam was sitting up in the neighbouring bed with a book, looking whole and healthy. His brother smiled.

“Hey, Dean. How you feeling?”

He honestly wasn’t sure. He wanted to ask Sam how _he_ was, but communication felt beyond him. He blinked and looked around, realising that his wrist was heavily bandaged, even though he couldn’t recall injuring it. Sam looked good though and with that to reassure him, he drifted away once more.

OoOoO

He thought he caught snatches of conversation from time to time. Definitely Sam, maybe Ellen, possibly even Bobby Singer. Words like ‘fever’, ‘a waiting game’. He wanted to open his eyes and let them know that he wasn’t sleeping, but his body resisted all attempts to follow his wishes. He was swimming against the tide, but slowly, incrementally he managed to inch closer to the shore.

When the pull of the water receded and his eyes finally opened, the bed next to him was empty. His heart rate went from sluggish to painfully fast in an instant as his eyes cast around, searching for his brother.

“Dean, _Dean_ , it’s okay,” and suddenly Ellen was there at his side. “Sam’s just downstairs. I made him go and get some air. He’s okay, I swear.”

Although he felt more awake than he had for a while, his body still felt weak and unresponsive. Ellen came to sit on the edge of his bed when she saw something in his face that told her he had no idea how or why he was there.

“Do you remember bringing Sam here? He’d been stabbed and he needed blood. Bobby did a blood transfusion with you as the donor. You gave him a lot; we nearly lost you both at one point, but he’s okay because of you.”

She smiled at him warmly. “You’ve had a fever for almost a week. Sam’s been out of his mind with worry – he’s been here at your bedside since he was well enough to get up, which is why I sent him out for some fresh air. You gave us all a scare, Dean.”

Us. Not just Sam, but ‘us’ – like there were others who cared about him. He met her eyes, feeling utterly lost and helpless. When she reached out and tenderly stroked his hair, he realised that her touch felt _nice_.

“You boys... You’ve been through so much. You carry all these burdens, Dean even though you’ve got people to share them with; Sam... us.”

There was that word again – a word that spoke out against the isolation of his existence. Her tone was so caring, that unexpectedly something inside of him broke. The weight of everything – of years of loneliness and duty and _loss_ , of relief at knowing Sam was okay and grief at remembering Dad wasn’t – sent everything crashing down. Noiselessly, like everything he had done since he could remember, he started to cry. 

“Oh, _sweetheart._ It’s okay,” Ellen said gently, shuffling up the bed towards him.

Next thing he knew, he was wrapped in her arms and instead of pulling away, he allowed himself to be held, finding comfort in her embrace. He stayed that way for several long moments, not realising that Sam had returned and was watching him from the door. 

Ellen had heard his arrival, however, and she gave Sam a brief nod. Sam mirrored the action and then stepped away again, not wanting Dean to feel that he had to quickly rebuild those walls for his sake.

OoOoO

Five minutes passed until Sam heard someone descending the stairs. Ellen appeared, clearly looking for him, and came to sit next to him at the table.

“Is he okay?” he asked anxiously. “Should I go up there?”

Ellen smiled as she shook her head. “He’s okay; just worn out. He’s gone back to sleep.”

“I’ve never seen him like that,” he said, running a hand across his hair as he pictured his brother openly weeping onto Ellen’s shoulder.

“Something tells me it was long overdue.”

“I feel like I’ve let him down, Ellen. He never talks to me about how he feels or what’s going on inside his head. When we fought, just before I got stabbed I said some terrible things to him...”

She reached over and squeezed his hand. “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, Sam. Your dad drummed it into Dean that he had to be strong for the sake of family. He doesn’t know any different.”

He huffed a humourless laugh. “Dean was always big on following orders. I wish he’d given as much attention to what _he_ wants.”

“Yeah?” she said with a smile. “Maybe things are about to change.”

Sam nodded, knowing it was too soon to tell, but allowing himself to be open to the possibility. 

“I really hope you’re right.”

OoOoO

Grudgingly, Dean accepted his fate that he needed bed rest. Day by day he could feel himself growing stronger, but any attempts he made to get up were quickly vetoed by his depleted body. He slept a lot. When he woke, Sam was often sitting by his bedside, also looking healthier as the days went on. Sam talked about the things he was doing around the roadhouse. Dean reminded him he should be taking it easy too, but in truth, it was clear that his brother was thriving in this environment.

Ellen came to sit with him too. At first it had felt awkward, but when she asked him if he wanted her to go, he found himself shaking his head. She told him about the roadhouse over the years and stories about when John had stopped by. Increasingly he found himself using the notepad and pen Sam had left him, wanting to be a more active participant in their conversations. Jo came occasionally, but it was usually just Ellen on her own.

Ash was possibly his most unexpected visitor, but when Sam let slip that his brother was an excellent chess player, Ash couldn’t pass up on the chance to play against someone with a similar level of skill to his own, no matter how intimidating he found the other man.

It was at the end of one of these intense sessions, in which Ash had taken Dean’s king in check with surprising ease, when Dean reached for his pad and scribbled a note, which he handed to the other man.

_Can you get Sam for me? I need to talk to him._

“Sure thing,” Ash replied.

Five minutes passed before he heard the sound of booted feet on the stairs and Sam’s face appeared around the door.

“You wanted me, man?”

Dean nodded, forcing himself to stop worrying the edge of the bedsheet. He gestured for Sam to sit down, his brother’s expression growing anxious. He couldn’t blame him; he felt pretty nervous himself and he _knew_ what he was about to say.

“Dean? You feeling okay?”

He waved off Sam’s concerns.

_We need to talk. About Dad, Croatoan, what happened at Fort Gillem. There’s something I need to tell you._

Sam listened while Dean told him everything. 

Afterwards, Sam insisted that they both talk to Bobby Singer. Dean had felt the familiar tension rising at the thought of involving others, and was about to issue his objection, but then stopped. If Bobby had wanted Sam dead he could have let him die from blood loss. The fact that the other man had done so much to save their lives, told Dean that he needed to trust Sam’s judgment. He agreed and Sam immediately went to find Bobby.

The three of them then talked about everything Bobby had learned over the years about Croatoan, finishing with what he and John had discovered in the files at Fort Gillem. Bobby firmly believed that Sam and the other ‘special children’ _could_ hold the cure to Croatoan, if they could find out what it was that they’d been given as babies. The possibility of preventing others being turned, or even being able to _reverse_ the effects on those already infected seemed like a worthy mission.

_Guess that makes us hunters_ , Dean had said with a smile. Sam had nodded and laughed. Never once had he imagined that the journey of self-discovery he’d so desperately craved would turn out to be deeply enmeshed with the life he’d tried to avoid. It felt different now though. This wasn’t about revenge – this was about hope.

There were other special children out there, undoubtedly – they just needed to keep looking. There were hunters throughout the country that Bobby knew he could trust with his life and he gave contact details for all of them – told them to stop by if they needed a meal and a bed for the night, or info, _anything_. Sam thought of Missouri, and hoped that they would see her again.

Dean’s presiding worry, as always, was Sam. Bobby was confident that they were the only three people, now Walker and Kubrick were dead, that knew about what Sam was. Bobby gave his word that no one would ever find out from him. He looked Dean dead in the eye when he said it. Dean believed him.

After a week, Dean felt well enough to get up. The weather had improved and when he ventured downstairs, he discovered that they’d set up a chair for him on the back porch. He smiled at the contents of the small table they’d set beside it – the chess set of his latest game with Ash was set up ready to be continued, some car magazines from decades gone by, a freshly baked cherry pie and a cold beer.

Sam appeared, grinning.

“You like?”

Dean smiled and nodded. 

_It’s great,_ he signed. _Thanks, Sammy._

“Actually, it wasn’t me – not all me, anyway,” Sam replied. “It was Jo’s idea and we all pitched in.”

Dean eased himself into the chair. He still felt like an old man, but at the same time, better – _lighter_ , somehow. Sam opened the beer and handed it to him, before retrieving one for himself. He then went and rested against the railing and for a moment there was silence as the two of them studied the rolling plains beyond the roadhouse.

“It’s nice here,” Sam said absently. “Peaceful.” 

When Sam glanced over at him, he put his beer down and raised his hands.

_Sam, we need to talk._

He could tell from Sam’s wary expression that he was awaiting the onset of the usual argument about their lives and what they wanted from them, even though becoming hunters had given them new purpose. 

_I’m sorry about everything that happened. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you what Dad had told me._

“Hey, it’s okay, man. I know you had your reasons. I wanna say sorry too, for everything I said when we argued. I was angry, but I never should have said those things.”

Dean waved away his apology. _Doesn’t matter. We’re good, right?_

Sam smiled and nodded. “We’re good.”

They returned to watching the grasses gently blowing in the breeze for a moment before Dean flicked his hand, indicating that he wanted to talk again.

_We also need to talk about being here._

Anxiety returned to Sam’s expression, like he knew what was coming next. He cut into the conversation before Dean could sign anything else.

“Okay, I get it. But let’s at least wait until you’re better before we go, _please?_ ”

_No, that’s not what I was going to say. I want.... I want you to teach them, if they want to learn._

Sam’s face creased into a frown of confusion, causing Dean to quickly fingerspell.

_Ellen, Bobby, Ash, Jo. If they want to learn, then you can teach them our signs._

He could tell the exact moment when Sam realised what this meant. He rolled his eyes at the sight of Sam’s growing smile.

_Just got sick of talking to your boring ass. Figured it’s about time I had someone else to talk to if we’re going to be regular visitors._

Sam’s smile blossomed into a broad grin.

“I reckon they’ll want to learn,” Sam replied, pushing away from the railing and heading to the door. He glanced back before he disappeared, his eyes twinkling with good humor. 

“Even if it just confirms to them that I’m the most interesting brother as well as being the best looking.”

Expecting retaliation, Sam ducked in time to avoid the bottle top Dean threw at his head. 

Alone now on the porch, Dean smiled to himself at the sound of his brother’s laughter echoing through the roadhouse. They had work to do and – yes - possibly more tough times ahead, but for the moment, he would savour the fact that the only responsibility he had was to kick Ash’s ass at chess and to enjoy some cherry pie with his beer.

**End**


End file.
